


The Otter and the Bear

by HwaetWeGardena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Contracts, Dominance, F/M, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Scarification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 92,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HwaetWeGardena/pseuds/HwaetWeGardena
Summary: In the years since the war, as a ministry employee and personage of some note in the wizarding community, Hermione Granger has put much of her energy towards fostering reconciliation and reform, helping those once under the thumb of Voldemort find redemption, and even growing close to a family she once despised – but how far will her forgiveness extend? When Antonin Dolohov somehow returns from the grave and, literally, waltzes back into her life at a Yule masquerade, bearing a new name, a new mission, and a new promise – to restore her parents’ memories, albeit with one extreme condition – she will have to ask herself how far she will go for her own blood, and how long she can avoid her rapidly changing feelings for the man she once thought a monster.  But Antonin is not the only ghost at large, and the stakes get higher and higher as the two of them get closer, week by week, to success – and to each other.  *Audentes fortuna iuvat.*(Canon-divergent; timeframe, present day.  Antomione story.  Possessive Antonin.  Magical contract.)POVs:  Hermione, Antonin, Lucius.Fancasts:  Michiel Huisman as Antonin; Iwan Rheon as Rabastan.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Narcissa Malfoy/Lucius Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Thorfinn Rowle, Rabastan Lestrange/Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnegan/Original Character
Comments: 1034
Kudos: 209





	1. "You've Had Your Bloody Fun"

<https://hwaetwegardena.tumblr.com/post/643658198590652416/this-is-a-photo-collage-for-a-fanfiction-im>

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling and claim no ownership over the characters described herein.**

<> <> <> <> <>

DECEMBER

<> <> <> <> <>

Lucius Malfoy was in high dudgeon.

Decked head to toe in heavy silk robes of his house colors, which swished behind him in a satisfyingly menacing billow, and _thwapping_ his cane on the marble floor of the grand corridor with every aggrieved stomp, he rounded a corner to confront the brazen intruder who was leaning up against a pillar with a cocktail in one hand and a red velvet ribbon in the other, looking entirely too amused. There was no mistaking him, this ghost he thought he’d exorcised from his new life, even with the pitch-dark mask, styled-back hair, cleaned-up appearance, and smart muggle suit in – _damn_ his insolence! – the exact same perilous, deep emerald green as his own robes.

Lucius ripped off his own mask and did his best to stare daggers at the invader; he wanted him to get the full, undisguised impression of _exactly_ how livid he was.

“You had _one_ job,” he enunciated, every word sharp as a paring knife, trying to peel this infernal interloper down to his rotten core.

The bastard had the gall to widen his smirk, cocking his head to the side.

“And what was that?”

Lucius could have gone his entire life without hearing that accent again.

“To stay _dead,_ ” he snarled, taking a step toward him.

The suave trespasser shrugged. “My new life is not so disgraceful, _staryy drug._ In fact, I would venture to guess, what with the shocking recovery of the Longbottoms, Wizarding London is disposed to look upon my organization with – ”

“That’s because they don’t know who you actually _are,_ you smarmy Russki prat,” he seethed, every syllable with incredible, almost painful emphasis. “I TOLD you I’d cover for you, I SHARED my business contacts with you, I LIED for you, all under the condition that you _never…enter…my…bloody…home!”_

He’d slammed his cane on the ground with the last five words. He couldn’t see it, but he had a feeling the same old blood vessel was twitching out of his neck again.

The other man transferred the red velvet ribbon to the same hand that was holding the half-finished cocktail and fished in his pants pocket for a while. With a deep sigh, he brought out a folded piece of paper which Lucius, even without it being opened, recognized with budding horror as an invitation to this very masquerade.

In an instant, he knew – Narcissa.

Narcissa, his beautiful, loyal Narcissa, and her soft, bleeding heart – all of which he, of course, loved about his wife, but not in this precise moment.

Lucius flared his nostrils, and uttered his own deep sigh. “She always did like you – or pity you, really – for some reason I could never fathom,” he sneered.

The presumptuous git simply raised an eyebrow and replied, “And I am most grateful.”

“And *I* would be _most grateful_ ,” Lucius spat, running his twitching fingers over his scalp and through the lengths of his platinum hair in ratcheting frustration, “if you would remove yourself from these premises IMMEDIATELY, through whatever magical or non magical means would be most efficacious, before I hex you into oblivion.”

“But I was invited,” the infernal cad objected, with an infuriatingly innocent grin.

“And you’ve had your bloody fun,” he whispered, looking over at the red ribbon.

His adversary had the audacity to laugh in his face. “Why do you have to be mad?”

The other man was taller and, in truth, Lucius knew, the better duellist – but none of that mattered in the throes of the the incandescent rage that seized him then.

He reached out and grabbed both of his opponent’s shoulders in a death grip as he hissed, “You came here with one goal in mind, didn’t you?”

“To sample your fine martinis, obviously,” he said, raising the drink to his lips to finish it – utterly unbothered as Lucius shook him, somehow not managing to spill a drop.

“She is not to be used and tossed away by you, you rapacious wretch.”

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy – do not mistake me,” he said, evading the grip in a single, liquid movement and placing the empty glass on a nearby antique table – without a coaster, of course. He stood back at his full height and smoothly removed his own mask, staring Lucius down, all his previous levity replaced with poisonous severity.

“I have no intention of _ever_ letting go of that witch.”

Remembering, in a pained flash, everything that this reprobate was capable of, Lucius felt a piercing chill go all the way from the back of his neck down his spine.

Narcissa, although wiser in almost all else, was – in this miscalculation – truly naive.

“What…kinds of…nefarious plans does a scoundrel like you have for her?”

“Why do you care?” the rogue retorted, squinting. “All she ever was to you was ‘Potter’s mudblood bitch.’ You let her get tortured in your own home like she was nothing but rubbish. You never saw her for all that she – ”

“And I was WRONG,” Lucius shouted, cutting him off, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one had heard him. He hated being reminded of the small-minded, cowardly, simpering fool he had been – or perhaps that he would always be.

“I didn’t – ” he stammered, readjusting his starched white collar. “Things have changed. She has been a boon to Draco – to all of us. I…she’s…like a daughter.”

“I’m glad you had the benefit,” the other man drawled, “of her helping to warmly welcome you and your idiot son back into society while you left the rest of us to rot – ”

“My sins are _not_ hers!” Lucius rebuked, pointing his finger at the beast before him, jabbing for emphasis – trying to ignore the slight shake in his hand.

“You must understand. She is…very dear to me.”

The villain, utterly unchastened, maintained eye contact with Lucius as he touched the ribbon to his lips and placed it the inside coat pocket closest to his heart.

“She is _very dear_ to me, as well, Malfoy – as you no doubt remember.”

He tugged his coat forward twice, nodded at Lucius – less a goodbye and more a challenge – and turned to go out the back doors. Lucius had no idea _how_ he was leaving, simply glad that he _was_ leaving, but his mortified curiosity compelled him.

“After all this time?”

The only answer Lucius got was two fingers flipped right in his direction as the man, never looking back, kicked open the doors and vanished into the December darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • To quote *Independence Day,* "Hello, boys, I'm BAAAAACK!" 
> 
> Several of the extremely kind, thoughtful commenters on my last Antomione fic said something along the lines of, "I wish this was longer," "I really wanted this to be longer," and/or "I want to see them married with babies." In all things, I live to serve. As a result, this is going to be a longer fic, and, thus, there will be more in the way of setup at the beginning. It's not at all a slow burn – it might just take a bit for all the gears to fall into place.
> 
> • Antonin's question to Lucius is two hundred percent a reference to this iconic moment:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gKZYV1PD94
> 
> • Russian phrases: staryy drug = "old friend"


	2. "Rules Are Made To Be Annihilated"

<> <> <> <> <>

_THREE HOURS EARLIER_

<> <> <> <> <>

Hermione Granger appraised herself in the carved, full-length mirror in Narcissa’s boudoir, sincerely grateful for the older woman’s perpetual kindness – but knowing that she had nowhere near the balls necessary to go downstairs in a dress like this.

The color was a vicious blood red – the shade for a woman who meant business – and the fabric was soft, ethereal chiffon. It was full-length, as all the dresses would be for tonight’s Yule Masquerade at Malfoy Manor, but the top portion left a great deal exposed. The bodice was an intricately beaded bone corset, and there was a red collar with matching beading around her neck from which a translucent red cape hung down, falling right above her elbows, leaving all of her shoulders and the triangle between and above her breasts completely unveiled. 

Over the last hour, Narcissa had taken an excessive, doting pleasure in applying her makeup, and, with the help of a relatively new, enormously better-treated house elf – Bipsy – she had done Hermione’s hair in an extravagant Grecian updo with a few soft curls dangling down. She’d taken an old velvet ribbon of Hermione’s (a gift from Luna during their last year at Hogwarts, when she’d stubbornly gone back to finish her schooling) and transfigured it red to match, looping it through her tresses. Even Hermione had to begrudgingly admit that the overall effect was captivating. She had not felt this lovely since the Yule ball she’d attended with Viktor all those years ago, although she could never forget, with lingering distaste, how it had ended.

“You are a VISION,” Narcissa breathed, clapping in rapture.

“Narcissa, this – ” Hermione faltered. “This dress is resplendent beyond words, but – ”

“But what, poppet?” she said, wrapping her arms around her in a maternal hug.

“…I don’t think I’m quite the caliber of woman to carry it off.”

“NONSENSE you silly chit!” huffed Narcissa, replete with affronterty.

“No, honestly, Narcissa, I have nowhere _near_ your grandeur, and I feel guilty taking – ”

She spun Hermione sideways to face her and squeezed her cheeks in both of her elegant hands, smiling. “Don’t you ever put yourself down like that in my presence again or I shall be _quite put out_ ,” she said, affecting an Austenesque milieu. “I’ve already shortened the hem and it’s fitting you _perfectly._ Even Sybill Trelawney could divine that every male head will violently swivel around in your direction as soon as you glide downstairs. And as for me, my sweet, you know I need more dresses like a hole in the head. You’re really doing me a favor taking this one off my hands.”

Hermione smiled and raised an eyebrow at Narcissa in the mirror, knowing that, in fact, Narcissa’s closets were magicked with an extension charm – as her own old beaded handbag was, but on a much larger scale – and that there was _no way_ she was truly out of room. But the kindness of the lie made her love the older woman even more. 

“Furthermore,” Narcissa continued, perhaps sensing that argument had failed and touching her fingers to her chin in thought, “it’s in _your_ house colors! I tried altering it at various points, but it truly looks best in its original red. You’re meant to have it.”

Hermione looked down at her feet then, embarrassed, realizing she was out of excuses and not sure how to voice her deeper worry. However, as usual, Narcissa was already one step ahead of her. She took Hermione’s hand and squeezed it.

“It’s the scars you’re worried about.”

Yes. 

It was the scars, the scars which she always took care to cover, never going without long sleeves, never showing her cleavage. It was the letters on her forearm, and the wavering purple line that peeked out over the dress from between her breasts.

She let out a shaky breath and nodded, squeezing Narcissa’s hand in return.

Ten years ago, it would have been absolutely inconceivable that Hermione would ever be standing in this spot, holding this woman’s hand, having this conversation – unfathomable that she would ever even willingly set foot in Malfoy Manor again.

In the years after the battle of Hogwarts, as the dust settled, the members of the “golden trio” each transitioned into different careers at the Ministry. Ron – _Merlin bless him,_ she thought – ultimately lasted only two years before he left to run the joke shop with George, but Harry took to being an Auror just as naturally as he had to being a seeker. In the course of her own legal work, with some distance from her own trauma, Hermione grew to believe – as passionately as she believed in house elf rights – that reconciliation, wherever possible, between the two factions of the wizarding war was necessary in order for magical society to move forward. After countless interviews, she became convinced that many of the death eaters and ostensible supporters of Voldemort had actually been just as much his victims as everyone else, trapped in an apparently neverending nightmare – the Malfoys, as repulsive as they had seemed, being prime among them. Lucius was serving time in Azkaban again when Draco, after the years of customary beurocracy and delays, finally went to trial, and Hermione’s decision to testify on his behalf sent a shockwave through the press. 

_GRANGER DEFENDS DEATH EATERS_ , the headlines had read – _HARRY POTTER’S BEST FRIEND, UNDER OATH FOR HIS WORST ENEMY_ , and the like.

(The reaction of the Weasleys had been even worse – which was why she was now single.)

However, Hermione’s unflappable, meticulous testimony (about how Draco had been forced to take the mark, and about how he had chosen to help Harry at a crucial moment before the duel with Voldemort) turned the tide of public opinion and ensured that Draco did not go to Azkaban at all. Instead, he earned a fairly sweet deal wherein – as long as he cooperated with the aurors and shared whatever information he possessed about any remaining death eaters at large – he maintained his freedom and lived a normal life. In a separate hearing a few months later, his father’s sentence was also lessened, with a similar deal in place, and the Malfoy family was subsequently reunited. 

Although Draco still only called addressed her as “Granger”, with his usual smirk, his gratitude towards Hermione was (and always would be) massive and sincere. They had cultivated more of an amity than she had ever anticipated, and, of course, the necessity of Draco working with the aurors had lead to – 

“I will never, ever be able to apologize to you enough for this, sweetheart.”

Narcissa, with tears glistening in her light blue eyes, was grasping the part of Hermione’s arm that still spelled out “MUDBLOOD.” The healer’s at St. Mungo’s had done what they could, rendering the marks less prominent – but they would never be gone. They were less angry, visually, than what Dolohov had painted on her body, from her chest down to right above her genitals, but they were far more hateful to her. Although she hated how his scar looked on her skin, she didn’t resent what Dolohov had done to her, as odd as it sounded in her head – it was do-or-die for both of them in that moment. Bellatrix, on the other hand, had enjoyed every stroke of the knife.

“It makes me want to vomit up every inch of my own intestines every time I remember that my own wretched harpy of a sister sat down there shrieking and – ”

Hermione hugged her then. 

There were no words to say – “ _none to heal it, nor numbed sense to steel it,_ ” as Keats had once written. There was only the faithful, stone-solid, _agape_ love between these two women who had both endured more than they would ever be able to understand.

After the trials for Draco and Lucius, Narcissa had invited Hermione to the manor for afternoon tea. She almost hadn’t accepted the invitation; in fact, it had taken her three days to formulate a response. When she got there, though, she was utterly overwhelmed – not only by Narcissa’s effusive generosity and thankfulness but by the sight of Lucius, still hollow-eyed and shaken from prison, getting on his knees on the marble floor before her, grasping both of her hands in his, and crying his eyes out. 

She would never forget it as long as she lived. 

It had taken time, but over the years Lucius and Narcissa, knowing her sense of loss at being unable to recover her own parents’ memories, had unexpectedly stepped up to fulfill the roles of mother and father for Hermione – and in turn she had become the daughter they’d never been able to have. They had completely redecorated the downstairs ballroom (it looked nothing like the place where she’d been tortured now), apologized until she thought they would wear out their vocal cords, insisted on bringing her over for dinner two times a week, gone to fastidious lengths to make sure their house elves were now treated in accordance with her guidelines, and even taken her on a couple of trips abroad which, otherwise, she never would have been able to afford.

Ron could not forgive her.

“ _Bloody fucking cocksucking traitor!!”_ was the last thing he’d said to her, stomping out of her apartment into the driving, merciless summer rain.

She would never forget that, either.

In spite of it all, Hermione missed him sometimes. She had no compunction admitting that. 

(Even now, she thought wistfully of how he would have, once – before the shouting, the recriminations, the absolutely perilous difference of opinion on the possibility of absolution – _delighted_ in peeling her out of this dress. She recognized that he had not been what she needed, that, in the long run, they would never have worked out, but this – this lingering hatred – wasn’t how she’d wanted it to end.)

Narcissa had pulled away, sniffling delicately – everything she did was somehow dainty, even dealing with the snot that threatened to escape her lovely nose – and sat down on the stool in front of her vanity, lit with magical golden fairy lights all around.

“Bellatrix, at that point, was an absolute, unmitigated terror,” she whispered, staring off into space. “I doubt you’ll believe me, but…it wasn’t always that way. She had a ruthless side when we were girls, I’ll grant you, but there was a…a gaity to her, as well, and…I’ll never know, truly. When she fell in love with Tom – ” She looked up at Hermione, who was still standing by the mirror, feeling the red chiffon between her fingers. A glimmer of guilt had passed over her eyes at the mention of Voldemort’s old name, the name under which he’d seduced them all. “She started to change, more and more, exponentially, and…suddenly I didn’t recognize her anymore as my own blood.”

Hermione walked towards her, sitting in the highbacked chair next to the wardrobe. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” she quoted.

Narcissa smiled. “That’s right, my girl. You’re as mine as if you were from my womb.” She grasped her hand again, then sighed, shaking her head. Narcissa was especially contemplative, even emotive, tonight, and Hermione wondered if something was wrong. 

“I feel guilty for this,” she continued, pulling out a small handkerchief from a drawer to dab her face, “but when that godforsaken slattern of a Weasley woman obliterated her, I was more relieved than I was devastated. Do you think me wicked? No! Of course, what a silly question. Of course you don’t, knowing what she did to you.”

There was nothing to say to that.

Never one to linger in melancholy – a woman of action, always – she slapped her own cheeks four times in rapid succession, sniffed one more time, and grabbed her wand.

“However, I do have a little something that can help, at least for tonight. Come here.”

Hermione stood again, approaching her, curious.

“Hold out your arm.”

She obeyed. Narcissa held out her wand and, after a series of complex wrist movements, intoned, _“Si cicatricem habens abscondam.”_

Over the next ten seconds, the savagely-carved letters faded into nothingness.

“Oh!” Hermione yelped, staring at her arm more closely. “Gracious Morgana!”

Narcissa laughed, like the ringing of garden chimes. “It should last for the next twelve hours, if I got it right.” She stood up, reaching forward and tapping Hermione’s collarbone. “I’m afraid that…for this one…Antonin…well, this was a homebrew curse. I don’t have a way to cover it. But I wouldn’t worry,” she said, grinning. “I think it lends you an air of mystique, which, combined with the mask – ” she posited, pointing to the matching, red, beaded half-mask on the vanity table, “will make you irresistable.”

Hermione, ever the bookworm, was no longer paying attention to the praise, large-eyed and still completely engrossed by the permutations of the spell. Pointing to her arm, she asked, “Do you think you would be able to teach that to me?”

Narcissa nodded. “I’d be happy to, Hermione. But it’s a bit complicated with the hand placement, so it might need to wait until next week – and at the moment I’m going to need your and Bipsy’s help getting ready myself. I’ve done something that might irritate Lucius tonight, so I need to look as ravishing as possible to soothe his wrath.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Hermione laughed, guiding Narcissa back to the vanity. 

“Bipsy!”

<> <> <> <> <>

When Hermione and a glammed-up Narcissa, decked in her customary forest green (with both her neck and her hair, half-up half-down, rife with shining emeralds), journeyed down the grand staircase arm-in-arm thirty minutes later with their masks on, the party was already in full swing. Narcissa, wanting to make sure the _hors d’oeuvres_ were presented to her exacting specifications, kissed Hermione on the cheek and scurried forward, her skirts flying out behind her like a verdant wave.

“Goddamnit, Princess – I can only be _so erect_ in this suit and get away with it.”

She turned her head, already knowing who would be leaning against the wall.

“Hello, Thorfinn,” she said, laughing (getting angry at him for prattle of this sort, she’d discovered a long time ago, was quite useless). She stepped towards him and took his strong hands in hers. “You look handsome, too, despite breaking the dress code.”

“Rules are made to be annihilated,” he said, with a shrug. Thorfinn, since he’d started work at a mysterious new company – one which would likely be a topic of conversation tonight – had eschewed formal dress robes for sleek black muggle suits and, in this case, tuxedos. He looked damned good in this one, she had to concede – his clean blonde hair spilling all the way down to his bright white collar and black silk necktie.

Not releasing her hand, he pulled her towards the massive ballroom as the sounds of a yuletide quartet floated out blithely towards them, smiling innocently. 

“May I escort you, my lady?”

“How knightly of you, my lord!” she giggled, following him.

“I won’t get you lodged under the mistletoe… _this particular time.”_

“I’m sure the previous time was a complete accident.”

“Obviously.”

Hermione, when the time had come, had also testified on behalf of Thorfinn, who had fallen into Voldemort’s clutches under strange and extremely tragic circumstances. Once she had learned the truth in her research, she’d believed with all her heart that he deserved a shot at rehabilitation, and – despite his sometimes goofy, cavalier nature – it was never lost on him that, because of her, he was now able to carve out a future of his own. As with Draco, over the years they had formulated a genuine, meaningful camaraderie. They actually corresponded multiple times a week via his twin familiars, Huginn and Muninn – two large, impressive black ravens who were a little too smart for their own good. In tiny tubes attached to the birds’ talons, they sent each other jokes and bits of encouragement to make their respective workloads seem less heinous, and a couple of times a month they would catch a pint at one of the newer places in Diagon Alley. At this point she would even go so far as to call Thorfinn one of her _best_ friends. 

Sometimes, just occasionally, it had seemed like it was going to be more.

She’d thought about what it would be like to be his – she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. He wasn’t _per se_ her type, but he was a fucking fullblooded Viking, for pity’s sake. By anyone’s standard, he was attractive, muscular, and, most of the time, hysterical. She doubted, though, if he could commit to one woman; for someone like him, the buffet of choices was always open, and she was just the little harridan who’d shrieked at him in the library. In the fleeting moments when it _had_ seemed like he was looking at her differently, touching her differently, at the very last minute something Hermione could not discern, some shadowed consideration in his mind, had always held him back. 

But as he pulled her into the ballroom, beaming at her like she really was the princess he always called her, she reflected that, whatever they did have, she was grateful for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • For anyone who is interested in this sort of thing, this is what I based Hermione's dress on:
> 
> https://www.wish.com/product/5e9e4fbe7f53a8059039c201?hide_login_modal=true&from_ad=goog_shopping&_display_country_code=US&_force_currency_code=USD&pid=googleadwords_int&c=%7BcampaignId%7D&ad_cid=5e9e4fbe7f53a8059039c201&ad_cc=US&ad_lang=EN&ad_curr=USD&ad_price=34.07&campaign_id=7203534630&gclid=Cj0KCQiA9P__BRC0ARIsAEZ6irj-2ZKba-y2pHYhqPgSyMEj0oWvNcGT1fTXCtlKB2jRVlc78PJuqjUaAgLKEALw_wcB&share=web
> 
> • If you are reading this thinking, "where is my Dark Daddy Dolohov?" (one of you on here called him that once and I can never stop laughing when I think about it), NEVER FEAR – he is on the way, closer than Hermione could ever know.
> 
> • The snippet of Keats poetry Hermione remembers when hugging Narcissa is from "In Drear Nighted December," which Keats wrote about being separated from his secret fiancee Fanny Brawne while he was dying of consumption:
> 
> https://poets.org/poem/drear-nighted-december


	3. "What He Thought He Had To Do"

<> <> <> <> <>

“Well well well, Granger – you _almost_ look good enough in that dress to turn me straight.”

Hermione smiled impishly as Thorfinn lead her through the crowd of dancers to one of the round tables where their friends were sitting – opulently decorated with holly berries and leaves and tiny floating votive candles. Draco, whose comments had made her grin, stood up to greet her as they each deposited a quick kisses on each other’s cheeks. He had opted for simple, sleek, classic black dress robes and a black mask, but he was unmistakable with his platinum blonde hair even from a distance. He swished his cape for dramatic effect and turned to gaze at his date for the night.

“But you’re not the only one who looks ravishing in your house colors,” he continued.

Harry, after all these years, was still a little bashful with compliments, usually either responding with overblown sarcastic bravado (“ _…but I *am* the chosen one_ ”) or ignoring them entirely. In this instance, he went for the latter, blushing but simply standing to join them, and crushing Hermione in a hearty bear hug.

“Ohhhhhh I’ve _missed_ you Harry Potter!” she wheezed, still in his embrace.

“You look lovely, Hermione.” He released her then, lifting his mask off his face. “Sorry work’s been bonkers. It’s _bloody_ good to see you. And hello there Thorfinn!” he continued, reaching out an amiable hand which Thorfinn shook, nodding his head at both men.

Draco was right – Harry _did_ look dashing, in his burgundy dress robes with gold filigree accents. A couple of years previously, with the astonishing help of his cousin Dudley (who’d gone into optometry), Harry had actually ditched his famous round glasses for muggle contacts – saying that it was difficult to deal with the specs on auror missions, which sometimes got rough. As a result, his shining green eyes were even brighter now. His black hair still spilled down in front to cover the scar on his forehead, but was cut tight on the sides in a way that made him look sharp, and rather trendy. 

Draco wrapped an arm around him and looked chuffed beyond all mortal imaginings.

Perhaps nothing had cemented the beginnings of reunification in the wizarding world like the news that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy – those so-called “WORST ENEMIES” from the headlines – were, actually, now a couple. After the initial chaotic frisson of astonishment and outrage, people generally came to think that if “the boy who lived” could show this much forgiveness, then maybe some of them could, too. 

Hermione worried for the two of them sometimes, with the way the _Prophet_ had handled it, making them a symbol of peace and consolidation when they were really just two people finally realizing how they’d felt about each other all along – but below the din and detritus, they seemed to be crafting their own fulfillment, one day at a time. 

After Hermione’s testimony had helped Draco secure his cooperation deal, the auror assigned to him had, of course, been Harry. ( _Or had he angled behind the scenes to *get* that assignment?_ , she wondered.) Over the course of the extensive interviews between them, apparently some veritaserum had been dispensed and, well – things had progressed from there. Draco couldn’t hide it any more, and Harry stopped feeling like he’d needed to. Hermione was one of the only people not shocked when it all came out, remembering the constant back and forth, the too-intense looks thrown at each other – fascination disguised as malice – and the dogged, singleminded focus with which Harry had pursued Draco around campus during that sixth year.

(“He couldn’t bloody get enough of me. I think it was the black suit,” Draco later joked.

“Does no one remember that I was fucking _right?_ That you were, although not by choice, in fact attempting to kill Dumbledore? _Hello?_ Am I taking crazy pills?”

“Nope – black suit.”)

All that mattered as far as she was concerned was that she’d never seen either of them as content as they seemed to be now. Lucius and Narcissa had been…surprisingly restrained about the relationship, and after a while, almost as welcoming to Harry as they were to her (at least, Narcissa was). They reasoned that, after everything Lucius had – both intentionally and unintentionally – put Draco through, they ultimately just wanted him to be happy. 

(The situation did, however, result in Narcissa looking at Hermione as her only avenue through which to obtain anything close to grandchildren, which was a tad problematic when her dating life had run fallow – and perhaps _that_ was why she’d insisted on dressing Hermione so beautifully tonight, she reflected, with a wry smile.)

All four of them sat down at the round table where Luna had remained with her date, engaged in what looked like an animated conversation. She was eye-poppingly gorgeous tonight, dressed in a sparkling, ice blue gown – and, because it was Luna, she was also wearing some kind of fascinator/halo appendage with multiple glittery snowflake antennae emanating from her head. She turned towards Hermione to smile beatifically and then reached across the table to take her friend’s hand. 

“You’re wearing my ribbon!” she exclaimed.

Surprised she recognized it even with the color change, Hermione squeezed her hand. “I often do. I cherish it. Luna, you should know you look magnificent this evening.”

She pointed to her hair accessory. “I’m Hans Christian Anderson’s Snow Queen. Take care that the mirror shards don’t enter your heart!” she teased. 

“She’s already pierced mine,” her date said, quietly, laying his hand over her own.

To be honest, despite Hermione’s public – and still genuine – commitment to reconciliation and clemency in regard to former soldiers of Voldemort, Rabastan Lestrange scared the shit out of her. The rumor was that he was able to sit here, courting Luna, taking civilized sips of elf-made wine from a jeweled goblet, solely because his older brother Rudolphus had taken the fall for things that Rabastan had actually done – and Bellatrix’s husband was still rotting away in Azkaban for it.

Rabastan had gone through the requisite rehabilitation program, of course, and he had not acted out in a single way or given one hint of recidivism since. But there was something, still, a bit feral about him, something it was hard to put her finger on – but perhaps that was part of why he and Luna appeared to fit well together. Hermione would have _loved_ to have been a fly on the wall when that first started, having no clue how these two people would have stumbled their way into a relationship. (She had tried to ask Luna about it, even to caution her about his former savagery, but all Luna had done was give her that saintly smile.) The only facts she knew were that, to everyone’s surprise, he had sought out a job at the _Quibbler_ after the death of Xenophilius and gradually become Luna’s full-time partner, in every conceivable way. 

Tonight, Rabastan was in black robes with iceberg-colored accents that matched Luna’s ensemble and both of their silvery blue eyes – although where Luna’s were open and loving, his were piercing and mercurial. Thin, ruddy-haired, and sporting a close-trimmed beard, he was otherwise good-looking, Hermione thought, in the way of a Welsh choir boy – especially when Luna did something that made his whole face transform in a toothy grin. But when he turned his eyes on anyone else, it was hard not to feel cold.

Harry, Draco, and one of Harry’s auror friends who’d wandered by had started pleasantly arguing about something political, which often happened, and Thorfinn stood to excuse himself, placing a hand on Hermione’s upper back.

“I’ll be back, Princess – I’m off to get some snacks.”

“From the buffet, or otherwise?” Hermione whispered, smirking.

“You know me, love – whatever’s offered,” he retorted with a cocksure wink before turning around and striding towards the food, making it look like a dance move. 

Rabastan and Luna had already procured some small plates – Hermione could spy, with the beginnings of her own hunger, baked brie with dripping apricot preserves; little sherry cream potatoes with caviar; jalapeno peppers with cream cheese wrapped in bacon; small pieces of bubble and squeak; prawns with cocktail sauce; and even a couple of tattie scones. She was sure that wasn’t even half of what was up at the long tables. 

Rabastan was teasing Luna with one of the peppers (she wasn’t an adherent of spicy food), when she looked up from the proffered doom fruit at Hermione.

“Is Thorfinn your date tonight?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure he’ll acquire himself a target in the next few minutes.”

Luna simply blinked.

“We’re still just friends,” Hermione continued, “and he waited for me at the bottom of the steps so I wouldn’t have to walk in alone. I’m going stag tonight.”

Luna nodded then, as Hermione readjusted her dress a little. “That’s probably for the best. He’s keeping something from you.”

Hermione froze. 

Immediately, anxiety bubbled up from the center of her chest scar, sending a rosy pink, blotchy flush up her neck, then flooding her cheeks. _Cholinergic uticaria_ , her doctor had called it as a child. It came if there was an allergic reaction, a rapid temperature change, an excess of alcohol, or – as in this instance – sudden distress.

“It’s…it’s nothing terrible, Hermione – ” Luna stammered, seeing the flush that she knew well. “Nothing frightening. It’s just that I can see the wrackspurts – ”

“Thorfinn!” Draco called out, seeing him return with a plate. Hermione tried to take deep breaths, willing the rash to dissipate, and Luna’s warning as well.

“I want to ask you about your job,” Draco said, slapping his hand on the tablecloth.

“Because you’ve got so much money you don’t need one, and you’re curious?”

“Yes, well, sucks to be the rest of you,” Draco said, stretching back in his seat languoriously, as Harry removed his mask and silently buried his face in his hands.

“I think Draco is technically a philanthropist,” Hermione posited. 

“Fucking thank you, Granger! Finally someone who understands the bloody work I do! Just last week I was – no, Harry, I will NOT shut up, this is important, Granger gets it – ”

In a quieter, more plaintive voice, as Draco was rambling about the little magical school he was setting up in Zambia, she asked Thorfinn, “Did you bring me a caviar potato?”

“No,” he mumbled, his mouth already stuffed with a spinach wheel pastry.

“You absolute cad,” she said, frowning.

“You need…to go up…there yourself,” he said, in between chews. “There’s something up there you’ll like, Hermione.” She squinted at him, getting the sense there was more to his statement, but before she could ask he turned back to Draco.

“What did you want to know, old chap?”

“Don’t you ‘old chap’ me – you and Rabastan are the elderly ones at the table. But regardless, what kind of inside deets can you give us about the Longbottom miracle?”

Hermione had known this would come up. It was the excitement on everyone’s tongue this last week, and it was also the reason why Neville and Hannah weren’t with them.

MediMagic Industries was a relatively new company, something that had only landed on the scene in the last few years but that was making major waves in the wizarding medical community. Founded by an enigmatic foreign leader no one seemed to have ever laid eyes on – someone by the name of Putorana – they specialized in funding research for breakthroughs in repairing magical damage that had been previously thought irreparable. They were tackling everything from familial blood curses to, according to one wild rumor, limb regeneration. (Hermione had idly wondered if they could fix scars, but did not even want to consider the cost of such an endeavor.)

At first, no one had taken them seriously. For so long, wizards were confident in their own understanding of what was possible and what was not, happy with their superiority over the rest of humanity. But the workers at MediMagic had actually started to succeed, landing more and more prominent press coverage, and now they were turning their attention to *mental* damages – but nothing could have prepared them all for what happened with the Longbottoms. With Neville’s permission, they were signed up for a secret trial involving some kind of extremely complex and powerful spellwork (the exact details had been locked tight), and, a few days ago, they were revealed in the Prophet as fully recovered, with a full-page interview and all. “ _LONGBOTTOMS, FEELING ON TOP OF THE WORLD,_ ” the headline had read. Hermione had stared at the moving picture for almost an hour – Neville, sobbing openly, grasping them both in a gripping hug. He had taken some leave from his work, she knew, to start making up for lost time. 

She hated herself when she looked at that picture, because her strongest feeling in that moment was not joy for her friend, but jealousy. That was a hug she would never have.

After some more aggressive chewing, Thorfinn ventured, “Honestly, we’re as excited as you all are, but I’m not sure I can share anything that you don’t already know.”

“I just can’t imagine – after how utterly buggered up the two of them were,” Draco said. Suddenly, Rabastan stabbed a bit of bubble and squeak with his fork and then stayed completely motionless, fixing the fried concoction with what looked like panic. 

_He was there when it happened_ , Hermione remembered. 

How much of a part he played, they would never know. The official line was that it was all Bellatrix. Luna gently reached an arm around his shoulders, but Draco missed it all.

“I mean, have you actually _seen_ the two of them, in the flesh? It’s not that I doubt MediMagic per se – I mean I’m bloody donating to them now…”

“Which we heartily appreciate,” said Thorfinn, raising his glass of butterbeer.

“…but are they talking, walking…really back to normal?”

Thorfinn wiped his hands on a napkin, nodding. “Yes, I’ve seen them. Truth be told, they’re lovely, just…right proper mum and dad types. They don’t know my past yet,” he said, anticipating Draco’s next question. “They just know me as someone who works there. They’re a bit lost with everything, sure – it’s a lot to catch up on, mainly getting to know their son – but at the end of it all just thankful. We’ve got all four of them, Hannah too, in protective housing right now, squirreled away, giving them some time to adjust.” He sat back in his chair, his arms folded, almost challenging. “But I can promise you that they’re back to 100%, mate. The spell worked.”

“Who made the spell, exactly?” asked Luna, Rabastan sufficiently soothed.

“Boss,” he said, clipped, suddenly less loquacious. “He’s the mastermind. The rest of us run security, interface with the clients, brew, gather ingredients – but he’s the brain.”

“Mr. Pu-to-ran-aaaa,” Draco drawled, doing odd, staccato karate chops in the air with his hands. It occurred to Hermione, looking at the three empty glasses in front of him, that he was actually already buzzed if not well on his way to drunk.

“Sounds like a brilliant name for a drug kingpin. One with his own tiger,” Harry said, taking a sip of his own butterbeer. “‘Say hello to my little friend’ type of thing.”

“What?” Luna and Draco asked, simultaneously.

“ _Fly, pelicang, fly!_ ” Hermione called in her best Cuban accent, as they smiled across the table at each other. “Sorry,” she said, glancing around. “Muggle childhood thing.”

“We should not have been watching that film as children,” Harry mumbled.

“Shut it, muggle plebs – the centurions are talking,” Draco yelled, making Harry sigh and Rabastan utter an unexpected barking laugh. 

For some reason, Rabastan liked Draco. 

Maybe he felt safe with blondes.

“ANYWAAAY,” Draco continued, “What’s he like, Thorfinn?”

Hermione had been sticking out her tongue at Thorfinn while he was grotesquely eating one of the caviar potatoes (which Narcissa had put on the menu at her own request) right in front of her face, looping his tongue around it with shameless obscenity.

“What?” he yelped at the mention of his name, dropping the snack. “Oh, Boss. Uhh…” He seemed to think for a minute, looking up at the cieling, which had been magicked to show every zodiac constellation in a perpetual, enthralling rotation. Hermione looked up with him, taking it all in – “ _lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”_

“He’s…demanding,” he said, cocking his head to the side, “and the work is…complicated, and far-reaching…but he’s fair. He’s…someone I trust.”

“That’s an exotic name he has,” Draco declared. “What does it mean?”

“It means ‘take your paycheck and don’t ask me any fucking questions,’” Thorfinn replied with a wicked smile, the same smile that seemed to make panties evaporate around him.

Everyone at the table laughed then, but Hermione couldn’t help but hear, again, the gentle faery echo in her mind – _“He’s keeping something from you.”_

Harry raised his glass.

“I’m…amazed, Thorfinn, truly. Thank you for the work you’re doing. To MediMagic!”

Everyone who had a glass raised one and drank. Hermione, too interested in the conversation to have left yet, simply patted her friend on the shoulder. An enchanted tray floated past their table, from which she plucked a gillywater cocktail.

“Plus,” Rabastan spoke, a hesitantly, “If he was willing to take on…well, one of us – ” He gestured to them both with his index finger. “Well…must be. You know. A good bloke.”

“That’s the bloody truth,” Draco agreed, turning to Harry. “We’re all tracked down or dead now, aren’t we?” It was said with no bitterness whatsoever, but Harry blanched – he didn’t usually talk about work during social occasions. Draco, even under the influence, realized his blunder and reached out to take Harry’s hand. Harry shrugged.

“With the exception of Amycus Carrow,” who, although a body had never been located, Hermione knew was believed dead after being slashed open in a ferocious duel with Kingsley Shacklebolt, “Yes. I believe you all are. You _did_ help with that,” he said to Draco.

“I bloody well know I did, and I don’t regret it for a second, or else you never would have drugged me into confessing my burning passion for you,” he said, grinning. Thorfinn spit out his tattie scone, choking with an awkward guffaw.

“I was NOT attempting to DRUG you so that – oh for Peeves’s sake.” Harry sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as Draco, who had started his famed T-rex routine (pinning his curled hands to his chest and emitting his best impression of dinosaur noises), was attempting to knaw on his ear. He really _was_ drunk.

Rabastan was shaking with laughter; Luna just looked confused. 

“Harry – RAAAAAAR – allright, yes, I’ll stop, but it’s ILLEGAL to be mad at me on Christmas, Harry. They just passed it into law. Granger, tell him!”

“I’m not touching this one with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole,” Hermione said, waving him off with one hand and taking a swig of her cocktail with the other.

“To ANSWER YOUR QUESTION,” Harry shouted, pushing Draco off of him (but not without a begrudging smile, Hermione noted), “Yes, I think our death eater work is done.” He looked around at all of them. “Four of you are in this ballroom. Seven are in Azkaban,” he said, casting a somewhat nervous glance at Rabastan, who was nuzzling into Luna’s shoulder, trying to avoid the snowflakes hitting his face. 

“And, the rest, as you said, are – by our best reckoning – dead,” he said, turning to Thorfinn. “Crouch in particular…it’s bothered me in the years since. The amount of information alone that was wasted when the dementor…” He shook his head.

“Honestly,” Hermione recounted, “I know this sounds insane, but he was probably the best Defense teacher we ever had – in spite of, you know, trying to kill you.”

“Yes well, there was that,” he chuckled. “But in a strictly utilitarian sense I know what you mean. I genuinely think I _learned_ the most from him that year, which is what I am saying – complete bloody tragedy for all that knowledge to have been obliterated.”

“I’m so…grateful,” Rabastan interrupted, looking between Hermione and Harry, “that the Dementors aren’t there anymore. Please…please know how much that means to me.”

Hermione, in shock, could only nod. It was probably the most that Rabastan had ever said to her directly, and in that moment his sense of guilt and longing was evident.

“That last escape must have been…a right mess,” Rabastan continued, looking down. He was probably glad his brother had stayed where he was, with the way it had gone.

“Yes, well, keeping Dolohov in jail was about as easy as keeping Daedalus locked up – he was always going to find a way out, even if it ended in disaster.”

Without meaning to, Hermione touched her purple scar. 

She knew this was not a happy recollection for Harry. It had taken seven aurors, deployed in an ancient heptagram formation, to finally locate and restrain Dolohov, and the fight was so furious that not a single one of them said they remembered casting the curse that exploded him into smithereens. It was a horrific scene – blood, viscera, and brain matter splattered on the cobblestone, a forearm with the snake and skull having landed on a rubbish bin, and a couple of toes flying through the air. Harry had told her about it later, shaking, drinking firewhisky to shield him as he waded through the memory.

Thorfinn, who Hermione realized had been curiously quiet over the last few minutes, cleared his throat and stated, “He…Dolohov…he wasn’t as bad as you think.”

“He was pretty fucking scary, by my reckoning,” Draco chuckled.

“You didn’t really know him,” muttered Rabastan.

“Damn right I didn’t know him! I stayed away from him. He was a _skulker_. He was always…you know, _skulking_. Plus he didn’t hardly speak the king’s English, right?”

Thorfinn laughed. “Not to you, I guess. But you have to remember that lot of what people thought of him came down to the _Daily Prophet_. Spin – it sold papers, that was all. They loved the narrative of the unhinged Russian – they called him the new Rasputin.”

“Like they called you a viking berserker, and me a brazen hussy,” Hermione said.

“Yes, exactly! Thank you. Well…I mean, that’s not _entirely_ untrue I suppose – ”

She slapped the living daylights out of his right shoulder without a second thought.

“Fucking damnit, Princess, that stung!” he yelped. Several other guests turned to stare.

“Dolohov still hurt Hermione,” Harry interjected, squinting in irritation. “You weren’t there, but he cast some cataclysmic abomination at her in the department of Mysteries – ”

“Yes he did, and he never fucking got over it,” Thorfinn mumbled, shaking his head.

Hermione swiveled in her seat to regard him. He’d never talked about this before. His trauma, his forced joining, the tortures he witnessed – yes, but never about Antonin Dolohov. She hadn’t even realized the two of them had been particularly close.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you bested him and it wrecked everything he thought he believed.”

“I never _bested_ him.”

“Yes you did – you survived. No one else ever survived that curse,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at the line between her breasts. 

Everyone else at the table was staring at them, enthralled – even Rabastan.

“But…Madam Pomfrey said I only lived because it was wordless.”

Thorfinn shook his head, having jammed the once discarded potato into his jaws. 

“Didn’t…make a difference. He could always…cast that dastardly purple whip curse non-verbally and it killed everyone else but…you, Princess. And after that how could he say muggles were inferior? He fucking couldn’t. It demolished him. Vol – ” 

He looked up, still not wanting to say it all these years later. 

“Riddle knew it, too – had little use for him afterwards. After that, Dolohov made it known to the whole gang that no one else was to take you in but him, worried someone like MacNair or Greyback would destroy you.”

“I remember that,” whispered Rabastan. He looked at Hermione. “That’s true.”

“And that’s,” Thorfinn continued, “Why the two of us came to get you in Tottenham Court Road, actually,” he said, nodding his head in Harry’s direction.

Harry, utterly flabbergasted, objected, “…but he hit Ron with a bunch of ropes.”

“Exactly. We were trying to get you all out of there, hide you somewhere safe.” 

Thorfinn turned back towards Hermione, finishing off his butterbeer. 

“And then you beat him _again_ and made him love you all the more.”

A stunned silence descended upon the entire table. 

Hermione realized that, even though Thorfinn dealt with it immensely better than Draco, he was drunk as well. He must have had several more butterbeers before meeting her at the staircase, she decided. Otherwise, he would never, ever be saying this. 

Suddenly, the music changed to something with a quicker, more felicitous pace, and the mood of confusion seemed to dissipate; everyone around them who wasn’t already on the dance floor started to gravitate towards it. Rabastan and Luna put on their masks and, with a little wave, joined the rest of the guests. Hermione stood to do the same, but was wholly unable to process anything Thorfinn had just told her. 

_“…made him love you all the more,”_ he’d said to her.

That, too, was something she couldn’t touch with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.

At least not before she’d had some more alcohol.

“Why…” she finally asked, doubting he’d ever speak to her of this again, “did he escape for the third time, then? His sentence wasn’t life. He could have…” 

She leaned her hands on the back of her chair and shook her head, locking eyes with a bewildered Harry as Draco yanked him to his feet. _So much more knowledge, lost_.

Thorfinn cast a furtive glance across the ballroom before he answered her. She took his moment of hesitation to grab her gillywater cocktail and finish off the last gulp, placing it back on the tablecloth. Thorfinn stood and held out his hand to her. 

“He did what he thought he had to do.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Leaning on the wall close to the food, he was watching, waiting – a predator in velvet.

He knew that she was here, somewhere, in this very room, his _L’venok._

It thrilled him to his core, every cell in his body alive and alert in a way he’d not felt in years. He felt like fighting, like fucking, like flying off the goddamn roof.

She was the reason he was here tonight. 

She was the reason for _all of it_ , every part of his life he’d rebuilt, brick by brick. 

It was murdering him from the inside, having to stay still, play it cool, when he was this close. He wanted to stalk around the room like a bear until he smelled her, took her in his jaws, held her tight, gave her everything she didn’t even know she deserved.

But the Greeks spoke of _kairos_ – knowing the right time to speak or act. Even with the strongest of arguments, everything could be ruined if the timing wasn’t exactly right. 

He had waited this many years for her. He could wait a little longer.

Breathing in the wafting scents of pine and cranberry (Narcissa, he could smell, still left no detail overlooked when it came to planning) he glanced out at the expansive ballroom, lifting his flask to his lips. This was a joyous night for all involved, more what things had been like a long time ago, in the beginning – before it all went to shit.

But tonight he was wearing a different sort of mask, hunting a different sort of quarry.

In the hand without a flask, he held a small plate with one tiny potato, hollowed out and filled with what smelled like sherry cream, topped with black caviar. Thorfinn had given him the vital tip that these were her favorites, so he’d made sure to secure one before they were all decimated by the crowd of hungry guests. 

It was a little funny to him that his witch liked caviar; most Englishwomen didn’t, in his experience. He would always have fond memories of it, of spreading it over dark, sweet rye bread with a little butter in the mornings with his father, before…

_No. Forget that. That way lies madness._

The music had picked up, and many of the guests were now leaving their tables, securing their half-masks to their faces and gliding arm-in-arm to the dance floor. Due to their distinctive hair, he could spot Lucius (who hadn’t, to his enormous good fortune, realized he was here yet) with his regal wife, surveying everything from the far corner – but due to the masquerade theme of the ball, he was having a harder time spotting anyone he knew, much less his little lioness. Eventually he thought he saw Draco – again, by the platinum hair – twirling around boisterously with a fellow in maroon robes. If not for the news reports, he would not have recognized the man as Harry Potter.

That coupling was good, though, as far as he was concerned. Two less competitors.

He thought he could pick out Rabastan Lestrange’s thin frame as he guided, to the best of his ability, a Nordic blonde fae-looking creature around the dance floor, maneuvering them close to where Antonin stood. Neither of them seemed to know what they were doing, but he admired that, in a way – all they appeared to care about was each other. The weedy bastard was lucky to not be in jail with his brother and, seemingly, even luckier to have found himself a witch who looked at him like she did.

He wanted, so badly, to dance with his own witch tonight. The fact that she did not know she *was* his witch did not fully enter his mind as a possible complication. He would not entertain defeat. He had come too far. 

_Aut inveniam viam aut faciam_ , he recalled from his school days.

At this point, even just seeing her would be worth it, he thought, squinting, casting his eyes over the busting ballroom in growing frustration. _Cyka blyat_ , was that too much to ask?

Lucius now appeared to be looking at him from across the grand hall, examining him with what he regarded as far too much interest, asking Narcissa a question.

He didn’t want his time here to run out before he at least got to speak to her, even from behind a mask – to hear her own voice just once, please, please…

And if there was a God – if someone _had_ been listening from behind his _babushka’s_ painted icon all during all those years of fervent prayer, snowflakes beating down outside the window – then He must have heard him in that moment. 

Because there she was.

Thorfinn was dancing with her, jockeying her closer to Antonin’s side of the room, her blood colored skirts flying out around her like a cascade of red maple leaves in the autumn. She was masked, her wild hair was tamed in an elaborate updo, and she had grown so much since the last time he’d seen her – still slight, but filled out in all the right places, soft and glorious. But as he took a deep, shuddering breath and watched the way her mouth opened when she laughed, he thought, _I would know you anywhere._

She was superb, even beyond all of his empassioned recollections, beyond all the moments he’d laid shivering on a frigid, wet stone slab and stared up at a starless cieling, hoping against hope that she would survive, that she was alright, that she was happy – and that she was not yet married to some other asshole.

If this man in the velvet jacket had an icon in his own mind – if there was anyone on this corrupt, wretched earth that he worshiped – it was this woman.

As she whirled in scarlet chiffon, engaged in lively conversation, her delicate shoulders were exposed to his hungry eyes. He itched to touch them, to kiss them…

And then when when Thorfinn spun her around, he could see it, venturing out above her bodice between her impeccable breasts – the aubergine scar. The scar that he gave her. She had not found a way to cover it, or eliminate it, in all that time. 

In all these years apart, she had still been marked – as his. 

That realization went _straight_ to his groin.

He knew he was fucked up. He just didn’t care. 

But his heady lust was interrupted when he saw that Thorfinn, in the course of the dance, was being entirely too handsy with her. He’d already noticed that his compatriot and employee had been drinking too much, probably a little nervous about tonight (“It’s too big of a risk for you to be out there, boss – even with the mask”). Merlin only knew what kind of prattle he had been whispering in her ear all night, and now Thorfinn was flirting with her, squeezing her, leaning in far too close to her, making his employer grip the flask so hard that, were it not made of metal, it would’ve cracked. He was tempted to dock his pay out of spite – if not for the fact that he was his best and only friend.

But right now he wanted to sucker-punch his perfect Aryan face.

He took another couple of deep breaths as the two of them flowed out of sight, replaced by a bevy of other couples who didn’t matter. 

_Nevazhno_ , he thought, putting his flask in his pocket – it was allright. He would wait. 

He recalled that chameleons could wait three days without eating, patient, changing colors to fit their surroundings – and when an insect came along, they could open their mouths and catch it with their capable tongues before the bug knew what hit it.

He could do the same. He had been nothing if not a chameleon over these last few years, and he had faith that his little bug would come to him. 

When she did, he would know how to use his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The quote about the stars from Hermione is a piece of this: “Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, /  
> Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.” It's a line from "Evangeline" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, a long, epic-style work about the Acadian Removal, and a damn fine, but really sad, poem.
> 
> • Russian phrases: Nevazhno = "no matter" or, in this instance, "nevermind"; babushka = "grandma"; L'venok = "lioness"; cyka blyat = I get different translations on this one, "bitch fuck" being the most common (general curse for anger).
> 
> • "Aut inveniam viam aut faciam" ("I will find a way or make one") is supposedly from Hannibal about crossing the Alps.
> 
> • For those of you waiting on more Dark Daddy Dolohov...the next chapter brings Hermione into his arms, literally.


	4. "She Is Rocked By the Waves, But Does Not Sink"

<> <> <> <> <>

“My dear,” Lucius purred into Narcissa’s ear, “how am I supposed to make sure this party is running smoothly when all I can look at is how _utterly scrumptious_ you are?”

Narcissa emitted a humming noise of pleasure as she leaned backward into his embrace, pulling his hands around her slim waist. His wife was always magnificent, but she’d put in extra effort tonight. She wasn’t just their hostess; with her rich flowing gown and the emeralds embedded in her mask and in her hair, she was their _queen._

“I’m glad you like it,” she whispered, still looking out over the yuletide celebration that she’d been assiduously planning for two months. “Poppet and Bipsy helped.”

“I shall have to thank them,” he said, pulling back her hair to kiss the highest spot on her neck, right behind her ear. She smelled like juniper berries and felt every bit as intoxicating under his lips as the first time he’d kissed her, all those years ago in the room of requirement. He was starting to doubt whether he’d make it through this entire soiree without carrying his lovely wife up the staircase, full-on caveman style, and – 

“Lucius,” she said, turning around to face him and grasping his hands, “I know this ball was quite the expense, but thank you – truly. It…it does me more good than you’ll ever know to see our home as…a place of joy again. Thank you, my darling.”

He pulled up one side of mouth in his usual wry grin. “Seeing you smile like that makes it worth every galleon,” he said, squeezing both of her hands and pulling her towards him in a gentle embrace, for once not caring who was watching. They stayed like that for a while, gently swaying to the music, her head laid on his shoulder. 

“You did a beautiful job with everything, my sweet,” he whispered, rubbing her back.

She looked up at him then, a small frisson of worry written across her features, but whatever she was going to say was stopped when one of those damnable nosey wizarding society harpies, which seemed to flock around Narcissa like seekers on a snitch, came over and brazenly interrupted them on some fool pretext to chatter.

Lucius had never even bothered to register the hag’s name on the unfortunate occasions they had run into her over the last several years, so he simply thought of her as "Cockblocker" while the interminable, pointless conversation droned on between the overtrussed, garrulous shrew and his beautiful, radiant wife.

Yes, he needed attention. 

No, there was never enough attention.

And yes, he’d decided, he _would_ be fucking Narcissa at some point tonight and scattering those emeralds across the hardwood floors of their master bedroom. For the moment, though, as Narcissa had been verbally kidnapped by a gorgon – a descendant of the “sacred twenty-eight” about which Lucius no longer gave a shit – there was nothing better for him to do but grab a goblet of elf-made wine from one of the floating trays and resume his spot in the corner, observing the guests.

He could see his child, Draco, and the girl he thought of as his other child, Hermione, grinning and dancing to beat the band. It warmed the cockles of his cantankerous heart, even if the dances were with Potter – whom he’d learned to tolerate and, after seeing how well he treated Draco, begrudgingly respect – and Rowle. 

He was less than enthused about Hermione’s close friendship with Rowle – after all, in the olden days, he’d seen the younger man shrieking in a fine battle rage as he peeled off someone’s face with a pocketknife. He remembered having to clean the blood splatter from his boots, which had vexed him immensely. 

To be fair, that was a frequent occurrence during the Riddle era.

Hermione had assured him, though, that there had not – or at least not yet – been anything romantic between them, so he sighed in grumpy paternal defeat and tried to just be at peace that they seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Pretty much everyone was dancing at this point, with the exception of the two of them and a few outliers, either still getting food or just standing on the wall, like they were. He recognized a few of the wallflowers – Professor Slughorn, for one, still alive and whiteheaded with a cane, was blithely making conversation with one of the Greengrass daughters. Lucius had been a member of the Slug Club in school and, although he was loath to admit affection for anyone other than his family, maintained a sense of lingering warmth and gratitude for the old man. Draco hadn’t made the cut, but, at that point in his Hogwarts career, his son was dealing with bigger problems.

 _Thanks to you_ , he berated himself.

He took a sip of wine to wash down his self-hatred and zeroed in on a figure all the way across the room – someone he did _not_ know. A few of the gentlemen there had opted for muggle suits instead of full dress robes (a custom that was lately catching on more and more in Wizarding England, to the lament and disapproval of Lucius). This unknown guest was one of them. It was hard to discern at this distance, but he’d opted for something not-black – blue, perhaps? No, green. 

He was tall – looming, even. Something about the man’s stance – crafted to look nonchalant when it was anything but – was setting off alarm bells.

“Narcissa,” Lucius said, tapping his wife on her shoulder as she finished her conversation with the yammering busybody, “who is that man in the suit?”

But even as he asked, the cold sting of recognition flooded what was left of his soul.

<> <> <> <> <>

After another couple of cocktails and a few jovial turns around the dance floor, filled with laughter and their usual esoteric arguments (“What do you mean, ‘peppers are a fruit’? Bollocks! They’re a vegetable!”), Thorfinn released his grip on Hermione’s waist and shoulders once they’d ended up close to the snack tables, taking a gallant bow.

“Alas, princess, as honored as I am, I can no longer deprive the rest of the gentlemen at this ball of your illustrious company.”

“You mean you’re on the prowl for sluts,” she whispered, smiling. 

“HERMIONE!” he wheezed, touching his hand to his chest, feigning a scandalized horror.

“I’m sorry – CHRISTMAS sluts,” she said. “More glittery than usual.”

“You _know_ I am slain by women in glitter, Hermione – we’ve talked about this.” He chuckled, gesturing around him. “And you would deny me such a banquet?”

“I would deny you nothing, Thorfinn,” she said, giggling and grasping his hand. “Thank you for being such a fine dance partner – and, truly, I do need to eat something.” She patted him on the cheek, maneuvering around the mask. “Happy hunting.”

With a roguish salute, he assimilated back into the crowd. He looked to be loping in the general direction of Tracey Davis, who was decked out in pure, sequined black from head to toe. He’d likely succeed there, despite his level of intoxication.

Shaking her head, she spun around, gathering her skirts, and walked towards the buffet. Picking up one of the dainty china plates, hand painted with a pattern of holly berries that matched the table decor ( _of course_ , she thought), she strategically selected a couple of the less messy items that would be easy to eat while standing. To her disappointment, however, when she reached the tray where the sherry potatoes had been, every last one of them had been eaten – only a few stray, sad caviar eggs remained.

 _Drat!_ she thought. 

But before she could mourn the loss of it, a larger predicament presented itself. 

Out of nowhere, two young boys in already-messy dress robes had appeared – Cormac McLaggen’s and Dean Thomas’s, from what she could remember – shrieking at the top of their lungs, “MARCO!” “POLO!” “MARCO!” “POLO!” Hermione and everyone else at the buffet attempted to maneuver out of their way, but the movements of the boy whose eyes were closed – Cormac’s – were erratic and unpredictable. 

( _It would have to be Cormac’s child. This man has never ceased to be a bane to me.)_

She’d made it almost to the end of the long tables, hoping she was out of the danger zone, when Cormac’s boy, sensing her movement and thinking it was his friend’s, suddenly lunged forward, grabbed the fabric of her dress, and yanked with all his might.

“Got you!” he yelled, as Hermione, in her pretty red heels, was pulled utterly off her axis. 

_Well, it was lovely while it lasted_ , she thought in misery as she plummeted face forward, her peppers careening to the floor. She had just enough time to vainly hope that most of the guests, focused on the music or the dancing, wouldn’t see her evening end this way. She pulled the plate to her chest, unwilling to shatter Narcissa’s china, closed her eyes tightly on instinct, and put out one flat hand in an attempt to break her fall.

Except that the fall never came.

She felt a strong arm wrapped around the front of her waist, suspending her above the marble; she smelled white birch trees, heard the frantic pulsing of her blood in her ears.

When she opened her eyes and moved her outstretched hand to grip the iron forearm, there was a warm breath on the back of her neck and the sound of a low, rumbling voice.

“ _Fluctuat nec mergitur,_ ” the voice said.

Turning her eyes upon her savior as he lifted her to stand upright, as easily as if she were a broomstick, Hermione was pierced by a pair of deep, spellbinding mahogany eyes regarding her from behind a forest green mask. She felt sliced open, bare – known.

Breathing, all at once, became difficult.

“ _She…_ ” she translated, still grasping his arm with one hand and holding the little plate with the other, “ _is rocked by the waves, but does not sink._ Thanks to you, at least.”

He nodded at her, one half of his mouth creeping up into a wry smirk as he gently took the empty plate – but he kept his other arm wrapped around her in support. Something about the way the gesture had conveyed a sense of academic respect, although she didn’t know this man from Adam, made her feel like she was melting in his embrace. 

“Extremely appropriate quotation,” she continued, trying to act calmer than she was as she turned her head and stared daggers in the direction of the panicked, retreating children, “considering that game is supposed to be played in a bloody _pool.”_

She heard a slight scuttering around her feet and looked down as the man released her to see Bipsy, cleaning up the pepper pieces and mumbling to herself.

“Oh Bipsy! I’m so, so, _so_ sorry,” Hermione cried, leaning down in an attempt to help. 

“Oh, not your fault Miss Granger, nope nope, we is just glad to have the young Miss here always. Nope nope, fault is Mister McClaggen’s son, yes. Boy is bad. Bad apple. Something like this happen every time Master Lucius let them come here…”

She reached up to the man in the dark green mask to take the little plate, which he handed down to her. As the house elf chattered his ears off about the state of modern wizarding children (“These babies is not behaving no more, sir – what happen to Miss Hermione if you not here? Bipsy shudder to think…”) and he responded with seemingly sympathetic head movements, Hermione had a chance to observe him in more detail – to further evaluate the deluge of sheer, palpable attraction before she drowned in it.

It couldn’t just be due to a dearth of sex, she noted, trying to analyze this new and overwhelming gravitational pull in the midst of Bipsy’s good-natured prattle. It was true that she hadn’t dated anyone officially in about a year, but she hadn’t been a nun since Ron, either. She’d gone out with Blaise Zabini for a short while, against Thorfinn’s advice (he’d been absolutely right – she found out later through the devil’s snare that he’d been courting three other witches at the same time), and she’d had a couple of ongoing, sporadic friends-with-benefits situations which not even Narcissa knew about. 

The first, based on shared grief and a long-simmering physical chemistry, was her ultimate secret, from _everyone_ in her life: George Weasley. Every time they collided, often initiated by him, they’d agreed that it would be the *last* time – but it just kept occurring. 

The other was Viktor Krum, who Hermione still corresponded with, and who’d sneak her into his hotel room whenever he was in town. Viktor had expressed multiple times that, in a perfect world, he’d want her to be his and his alone, but his agent had told him it was better for his image (i.e. sponsorship deals) to stay single. As much as Hermione had silently lamented that, she wondered if expecting longterm fidelity from a world-famous athlete would have been like expecting a cloud never to rain. 

In truth, none of them *except* Viktor had given Hermione the type of sex she knew she needed, not even Ron (which wasn’t their fault, really, as she hadn’t even been sure how to ask for it), but but it had only been two weeks since she’d last seen her Bulgarian.

Thus, it wasn’t simply that she was hard-up and seeing this scrumptious man in green through gillywater goggles. No, what he was doing to her – the shortness of breath, the palpitations, the damnable flush she could feel slithering up her neck – this was all him.

He was tall, impressively so, and – from what she could tell – muscled, but in a lean, lithe way, not at all bulky. Despite having teased Thorfinn earlier for breaking dress code, in truth she quite _liked_ the muggle three-piece suit this gentleman wore, not only because it was beautiful and unique, but because its razor-precise tailoring rendered it a much better indicator of his actual dimensions than the customary billowing robes would have done. His velvet jacket was a in fact a very _dark_ green, so dark she would have almost thought it black until she saw it catch the light, and the mask tied to his face was the same shade and material – quite simple compared to many of the other masks, including hers, but Hermione got the sense that his confidence required no adornment. His hair, the color of creamless coffee, looked like it was long enough to fall past his cheekbones but, tonight, had been slicked back. The man's beard was lush but nearly trimmed, whispering for a delicate touch. He had a strong nose, and his eyes – 

Were now looking straight at her. 

_Damnit_. She’d been ogling him and was caught red-handed – well, red all over, actually, and even moreso now. What seemed a wicked smile bloomed across his countenance as he glanced down briefly to the increasing flush on her chest and back into her eyes. Before she could wallow in her embarrassment, she heard Bipsy mention her name.

“Take care of Miss Hermione, sir,” she said. “Bad apples may roll back around.”

“Oh… _I will,_ ” he said, still grinning, holding out his hand to her as Bipsy disappeared.

Hermione, strongly suspecting she had hallucinated her way into a fairytale, took the offered hand without a word (she could conjure none) and let the man in green velvet lead her to a spot by the wall, near the very end of the buffet tables. 

“I think,” he whispered, giving her a chill as he leaned in close to her ear, “I might have something that could go a small way towards making that unfortunate mess up to you.”

He reached behind a flower arrangement he had squirreled away a little plate, and as he lifted it she saw its contents – one glorious remaining caviar potato. 

“Oh you _bloody marvelous archangel!_ ” she shouted, clapping her hands. His smile got even wider, showing off his even, white teeth, as he chuckled and handed it over. 

“Thank you _so much_ – you are a gentleman of the highest order and I did not deserve you tonight, sir. You have rescued me both from hunger and humiliation.”

He simply nodded deeply again, but as Hermione ate the appetizer, savoring each contrasting flavor, she noted that he was watching her like a hawk. It might have made her uncomfortable, but instead she was awash in a feeling of sudden familiarity. 

As she chewed, now squinting, she wracked her gillywater and adrenaline-addled brain, but she could not for the life of her think of how she would know him. 

“Am I,” she said, dabbing her lips with a nearby napkin and sneaking the plate back behind the flowers, “permitted to ask for the name of my savior?”

“Ah, but what would be the fun in that, my crimson lady? What’s the pleasure of a masquerade if not for just one night of anonymous bacchanalia?” he asked. 

Hermione could hear, now, that he had an accent. She recognized it as vaguely Slavic but would not have been confident in pinning down the exact origin. She was only sure that it was somewhat different from Viktor’s. There was a music to it. 

If she was honest with herself about his voice, she was embarrassed at how seductive she found it, and she had to remind herself that she had only met this man a minute ago. 

_Oh Thorfinn, I owe you an apology,_ she thought. _*I* was the Christmas slut all along._

“Am I to understand something terrible will happen if I see your face, then? That you’re actually some prince cursed to live as a white bear, who will then have to marry a troll?”

 _Stop babbling stop babbling stop babbling_ , she berated herself, only realizing then how buzzed she was – but he surprised her by guffawing. For some reason he’d thought that hysterical. She blinked as he looked away from her, shoulders shaking.

“One day, if you’ll let me, I’ll show you why that’s funny,” he said. “But, yes, for the moment,” he said, scooting close enough to her on the wall to where they were now touching, sending a little jolt across her skin, “I will confide in you that something catastrophic would, in fact, happen if I were to reveal my face and my true name.”

“I shall protect you, then,” she said, affecting earnestness and looking up into what she could divine of his handsome face. “I know some good spells.”

“Yes,” he grumbled, losing his grin and shaking his head, ruefully. “I’m aware.”

So, although Hermione knew nothing about this man, he did know something about her, either by reputation or experience. His brief, ostensibly casual comment demonstrated an unbalanced distribution of intel which, despite the low-stakes environment, she found maddening. She couldn’t abide _not knowing_ things. Learning was her *passion* – her default mode of existence. Even now, although she didn’t go around raising her hand every other second or reciting definitions verbatim, she still wanted to know _everything_ about _everything_ , and right now there was nothing in the entire universe that was as intriguing to her as this gorgeous, mysterious, pristine-smelling foreign visitor.

It almost seemed like he _knew_ , as he raised his eyebrows at her, prodding her curiosity, damn him. Even with half a mask, Hermione recalled that she’d never had much of a poker face. However, she was enjoying this too much to balk. She would relegate herself to playing by his rules, for tonight – her American friend from work was always telling her she needed to “live in the moment” more, whatever that meant – but the riddle of his identity continued to gnaw at her. She wondered if she could come at it sideways.

“May I ask, if nothing else, how you know the Malfoys?”

The stranger seemed to think on this for a while, looking out at the undulating skirts on the dance floor, but not removing himself from his perch right next to her; with a little inexplicable thrill, she could feel the velvet of his jacket rubbing her bare shoulder. 

At last, still gazing outward, but turning his head closer to her ear, he answered, “Lucius and I were part of a joint business venture many years ago.”

“Ah,” she said, just barely, barely leaning into him a little – enough to, perhaps, initiate more contact, but not so much to where she couldn’t pretend later it wasn’t accidental. 

“Was it a successful venture?” she asked, seeing Thorfinn take Tracey for a spin.

He barked a bitter laugh. “ABSOLUTELY not.” 

He craned his neck to the right, gazing down into her eyes again, too _intently_ , too… 

Something about this juncture was perilous. She knew not what. 

Hermione felt like one of the butterflies that her father, in his collecting days, had once pitilessly pinned down into his eggshell-colored shadowboxes. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. Any designs of attempting to Sherlock Holmes her way into this foreigner's secrets were demolished – all she was able to focus on now, with his eyes plumbing her depths, was breathing, blinking, standing, assembling syllables.

“What about you?” he asked, so soft that it was almost a whisper, plucking her another gillywater cocktail from a tray that floated by his head without even moving his eyes.

She blinked a couple of times, amazed by her own imbecilic muteness. If this man was an old Malfoy business connection, where had he been for the last few years? 

Where had he been her whole bloody *life*? 

( _And what was he doing for the rest of it?_ )

“Thank you,” she finally said, taking it from his hand. She wasn’t sure she should imbibe more, in truth, but this was the sort of man who inspired a need for liquid fortification.

“But if you already know who I am, then I suppose you already have your answer,” she said, not breaking eye contact as she took a sip of the cocktail.

He shrugged. “I did not say I knew you – just that I knew you were adept at spellwork.”

“And how do you know that?” she asked, looking back out at Thorfinn. Tracey, superb in her onyx sequins, was throwing back her head laughing at one of his jokes. 

“Because of whatever anathema you’ve hexed me with this evening.”

“I have done no such thing!” she scoffed with mock indignation, still absently watching Thorfinn dance. “I haven’t touched my wand since I did Narcissa’s hair.”

“Excellent work on that, by the way – but, yes, you _have_. It’s an intricate, subtle spell, but not one that can elude me, and it’s caused me _quite_ the inconvenience.”

“You poor, defenseless thing. And what inconvenience might that be?” she said, smirking.

“I’m completely unable to take my eyes off of you.”

She wondered if her heart might stop altogether.

She could feel him then, observing her, the rise of her breasts as she took in a shaky breath through her nostrils, the flush she knew was creeping back up her white neck. But she could not look at him. She could *not*. She knew she would be lost.

How drunk _was_ she? 

“I…your words are…too kind, my nameless rescuer. Yet I cannot help but doubt them, sir, when there is much more elegant splendour in this ballroom to behold.” 

_Keep it together. Don’t look at him. Hermione, keep calm and carry on._

“How,” he continued, walking the two fingers on his right hand around her waist, “do you think I was there in time to be your ‘rescuer’? It has been _physically impossible_ for me to look away from you ever since you first waltzed around the dance floor.” 

_This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening. This *never* happens – not to me._

Curving his long hand around her hip, he leaned into her ear. 

“And now I’m perilously close to taking you back out there again myself.”

She was the bookworm, the swot, the worker bee – the guilty midnight floo, the letter written in secret, the fourth girlfriend, the girl who never got asked. The afterthought, the one taken for granted. She was not “the pursued”. This was not her lot. This was for the Traceys of the world. Her place was at the table; her place was by the wall.

The music had changed to a quicker, much older tune that – in the segment of her brain that wasn’t overwhelmed by this man's touch, voice, scent – she instantly recognized.

She finished her drink in one last, ambitious gulp, placed the glass on the table, and finally turned in his embrace to look at him. His face was still _right there_ , inches from hers as his left arm joined his right to encircle her, bold as brass. 

She reached her tentative hands up to join, almost in prayer, at the back of his neck.

“Then take me.”

She knew the instant it came out of her mouth that she had not only meant the dance.

And from the sharp grin that shot across his features as he guided her away – merciless, even malevolent – she could tell that he knew, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The story Hermione is referencing, mentioning the bear and the troll, is the Norwegian folk tale "East of the Sun and West of the Moon," in which a prince is cursed to live as a white bear during the day, but, at night, cannot allow his true face to be seen. (Hijinks ensue from there: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_of_the_Sun_and_West_of_the_Moon)
> 
> • Speaking of hijinks, Dark Daddy Dolohov POV for the next chapter. :-) Thank you so much for the incredibly sweet comments so far, which have inspired me to keep typing. I appreciate all of you, to the moon and back.


	5. "I've Got You, Krasavitsa"

<> <> <> <> <>

It was too much and not enough at the same time, holding her like this, one hand tight around her waist, whirling to the music. After all the dripping years of acid loneliness, the utter dearth of hope, the dementors skulking around the corner as he tried to touch himself and think of her in the dark – now he was touching _her_. He’d made it. This is what it was to be alive. He had crammed so much into the few short years since he’d birthed a new name for himself, but all of it was dross compared to this one dance. 

In some ways he was only now realizing that he was, in fact, finally free – only as he held her tonight. That’s what this woman meant to him. 

And yet the monster in him wanted more – to smell her skin, to tear out her scarlet ribbon and rip her dress to shreds, to make her cum until her legs buckled beneath her and no other man could ever dance with her again.

 _Calm down, you incorrigible mudak_ , he berated himself, willing his cock to retreat. _You will have her – just not tonight. Stay the course. You’re too close to fuck it up now._

“This is a fast one!” she said, interrupting his inner pep talk. As he squeezed her hand and they maneuvered in time to the music – she was right, this one moved at a more speedy clip than some of the other numbers the quartet had played – he looked down and saw a wide, unguarded smile on her face which cracked something inside him. 

He knew how terrifically he wanted her, every fiber of her body and soul – but he had never known she would be so…cute. He was unprepared for it.

He smiled back down at her and asked, “Do you know the tune?”

“Yes!” she almost squealed, having the time of her precious life, holding up her lush red skirts with her other hand. “I love this piece!” 

The beat reminded him of what used to be called a “black nag” at the revels they'd all attended in the old days, except in this dance every couple was doing their own thing. Many of them, worn out, had given up and gone to rest or get refreshments; Thorfinn and whoever he’d been dancing with were among them. He locked eyes with his friend as they passed close by. The blonde man nodded up at him with a gamely salute, as if to say, _“I’ve done what I can for you, old man – now don’t screw up the endgame.”_

The fact that there were fewer couples dancing now was both good and bad. Good, because it gave him more room for extravagant flourishes and less fear of colliding with others. Bad, because it made it more likely that he would be noticed by Lucius, which…

Of course. He already had been. 

His former colleague was now staring him down with frigid vitriol as his wife was nervously glancing back and forth between her husband and the dancing couple. He looked as if he might vomit icicles to see a death eater holding his dear goddaughter.

He was running out of time. He’d need to use the rest of the song to his advantage.

“I am glad that it pleases you, _krasavitsa,”_ he growled, pulling her close to his chest. She gave no resistance – in fact, even in motion, she seemed to fit against him perfectly.

(He could not help but think of other ways to test the alignment of their bodies.)

“What does that word mean?” He cherished the feel of her breath on his neck.

“Hmmm,” he teased. “I will only tell you if you can tell me who wrote the song.”

His witch had a reputation for immense and often obscure knowledge. 

She did not disappoint him.

“It’s called ‘Pastime With Good Company’,” he heard her answer, as they danced near Rabastan and his girl in light blue, who watched Hermione glide past with pleasant interest. Rabastan stared in alarm. He wondered if Rabastan remembered him; it was hard to tell if that look on his face was concerned recognition or simply his normal mania. 

“It’s by Henry VIII,” she continued, nestling her head on him as they danced – her hair smelled clean and floral – jasmine, and tea roses, maybe? 

_Klyanus’ bogom_ , he thought, I could get used to this.

“Now tell me what that word means – what you called me. Is it something mean?”

“I confess I cannot keep them all straight,” he said, ignoring her demand. “You English had so many Henrys, like the French and their Pepins.”

She laughed again. “You keep yet more secrets! But he’s the Henry with six wives.”

“This seems an excessive amount – wasteful, even.” He could tell, with the frantic crescendo, that the tune was nearing its end. Time to go out with a bang.

“Indeed,” she returned. “He decapitated one of them for being a witch.”

“Was she?” 

He glanced up at an infuriated Lucius again as he took both of her hands in his and pushed her outwards. It wasn’t the arena for this move, but he’d make it work. She hadn’t noticed, he didn't think, but most of the ballroom was watching them now.

“Was she a _witch_? No,” she replied.

“Unfortunate for her.” 

Again, she giggled. He would have to discover more ways to produce that sound.

“Well, I like his song, too, as you do – lady in red.”

“Why? He’s just one of a dozen Henrys!” she quipped as he pulled her back to him.

“Because – it will be a treasured memory for me now, this dance with you.” 

And then, with a firm hand on her back, he dipped her, lowering his face almost to her breasts; a few strands of his hair fell down into his own face, and her purple scar seemed to wave at him from above her bodice, tantalizing him. Her eyes went wide as he lowered her, but he put his other hand, comforting, on the side of her face.

“I’ve got you, _krasavitsa,_ ” he breathed over her breasts, somehow looking away from their glory to hold eye contact with her. “Never doubt it.”

Suddenly, the number was done and the people around them were all clapping, both for the musicians and for their dance. She looked around, shocked – she’d been completely focused on him, he noted with an unexpected pleasure – as he pulled her back up to stand on her feet. Her hair was starting to fall in errant, curling pieces, as well, and she looked a little wild, in the best of ways. _Chert voz'mi_ , she could break him.

They were both panting, he realized.

He took a step towards her and held her in a soft hug, touching his lips to her ears.

“And, by the way – it means ‘beautiful.’”

He could feel, with the fingers that laid on the back of her lovely neck, the chill that ran across her body at his words. Had it been so rare, this designation? How many fools had missed the opportunity to simply call this goddess what she was?

His enjoyment of her response, however, was cut to the quick by the sight of an explosive Lucius, who was now actively being restrained from stomping to the dance floor by his wife. He hugged his witch tighter in response, without precisely meaning to.

“I think my carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin,” he whispered. “Will you escort me into the hallway, to give me a few more minutes with you before I must go?”

He released her and she looked up at him, seeming dazed, perhaps even hurt. 

He did not like to see this, any shred of gloom on her face. It made him want to punch something – to curse something and watch it slowly die. 

But another part of him – an ugly, greedy part – whispered that her obvious disappointment at his departure was exactly what he’d wanted. 

After a few seconds, in her typical courageous little way, she shook her head back and forth rapidly, collecting herself and gathering her skirts – his brave _L’venok._

“Of course. Lead the way,” she said, utterly professional, slipping her arm into his. 

Plucking a dirty gin martini from a tray that floated past his head and casting a nervous glance over his shoulder – _Thank you, Narcissa_ , he thought to his old, stalwart friend, still blocking her husband’s path, ameliorating him in whispers – he pulled his partner past her comrades and acquaintances out a set of double doors that lead to an opulent corridor, with hovering candelabras and marble pillars spaced out on each side.

A silence settled between them as they walked together, far enough to where they found the other set of double doors that lead back into the ballroom, and – more crucially – also to where he was in sight of one of the manor’s exits. _I can make a quick getaway from here, depending on exactly how violent he gets_ , he reflected with wry amusement. It wasn't that he couldn’t annihilate Lucius in a half a second – it was that he didn’t want to bring more stress to Narcissa after she’d been kind enough to send him an invitation.

He stopped at one of the pillars by the doors, placed his drink on a nearby table, and turned to his enthralling companion, resting his hand on her uncovered shoulder. He could see that she was wrestling with the idea of crossing some sort of Rubicon, and in another small show of daring, she squared her shoulders and removed the embellished crimson mask from her face. Even in the low, soft light from the candles, his witch was nothing short of spectacular, gazing up at him with all her emotions written on her lovely countenance – befuddlement, regret, uncertainty, hope, longing, and, perhaps, desire. 

“May I see you again?”

It did not take a _leglimens_ to know that those five words had cost her some pride. She took a step closer to him, still staring up at him in plaintive expectation. 

He’d planned to be debonair, to leave her wanting more, to play it cool. 

He’d known her fearlessness, known her beauty, but he had had not known this moment, these whiskey colored eyes digging up into the hard packed soil of his resilience like two dogged brown moles. It was her simple, sweet request, her undisguised want, open and guileless, that was disintegrating his resolve.

_Don't do it. Don’t kiss her yet._

_Don’t._

She retreated from him then, until her back was arched against the pillar, her hands behind her, her breasts pushed up, her scar winking above the beads of her bodice. 

*His* scar. 

*His* woman.

_Ne glupi, Antonin. Don’t scare her off. There will be another night, another kiss –_

She sighed, shifting the stray curls that had dangled down close to her sumptuous lips.

_…nope._

_Fuck it._

And in the next instant he was simply there, _on_ her, flooding her with his entire body, pressing her into the hard marble and devouring her with his famished mouth – any attempt at devil-may-care nonchalance thrown out the window into the crisp December snow. He simply could not restrain himself after waiting so long, after coming so close, after holding her so tightly, and now as his wicked tongue tangled with hers, she was everything he’d ever imagined and more – tasting of mint and gillywater and all his most fervent fantasies. Kissing her for all he was worth, like he'd never kissed another woman on the planet, he felt surprise and the sting of arousal as she wantonly moaned into him, raking her fingernails across his scalp and down the back of his neck. Not breaking the kiss, he bent down without a shred of shame to to shove her dress up to her thighs and wrap her legs around his back, lifting her with a growl and shoving her even harder into the pillar. 

“Ahhh!” she mewled, driving him into an undomesticated frenzy as he departed her lips to nip his way down her neck ( _she has no idea what she is doing to me – what she has done to me all these years, my little L’venok_ , he barely had time to reflect). Her moans reached a fever pitch as he ground his cock into her, not giving a damn that she would know, with not a mote of doubt, how hard she made him. Frustrated at the interruption of the intricate red collar attached to her gown, he lifted one hand to rip open the back clasp, eliciting a shocked whimper, then savaged her neck as he tore down her hair and it all fell around her face in a wavy, golden-brown cascade. Still pinning her to the cold stone without clemency, he sucked the supple skin above her collarbone to leave something lasting with her, a signature, a splotch of his adoration and brutality – something she would see in her mirror the next day and know, _yes, this did happen._

He couldn’t stop now – he wouldn’t stop, all his meticulous plans be damned.

And then he heard it, through her frantic exhalations, distinct – the tapping of a cane.

Summoning every tenuous ounce of self-control left to him, he dropped her, grabbing her face with his two hands, conveying all the severity he could muster from a man who had come within about forty seconds of just wandlessly _evanesco_ ing her underwear and fucking her right in the hallway of Malfoy Manor.

She had heard the sound too, he saw in her panicked irises.

“Lucius,” she whispered.

“I know. Go back to the party – I’ll deal with him.”

“Where can I find you?” she asked, as he was moving her back towards the doors.

He smiled, touching her lips – _cyka blyat,_ those had been hard to leave. 

“East of the sun and west of the moon,” he quipped, watching a matching, if befuddled, smile bloom on her own radiant face. 

_Yes, I got your little joke earlier. Even mysterious masked foreigners once had childhoods_ , he thought to himself, chuckling. _Just wait until you see my patronus._

The tapping of the cane – it was getting closer. She had to go, _now_. They were out of time. It was *vital* that she not bear witness the coming conversation. 

He opened one of the doors for her as she objected, “But, really, I don’t know how to – ”

“I will find you, _krasavitsa_. In two days, my familiar will be waiting at your desk. Now go.”

He couldn’t resist gently shoving her out by her arse, hearing a muffled, “ _But how do you know where I work _?” as he closed the door behind her.__

__He had just enough time to grab his drink, lean against the pillar, cross one leg over the other, and cultivate an air of unbothered superiority which he knew, from years of experience, would engender maximum annoyance in Lucius as the owner of the manor himself rounded the corner. He looked as if smoke might come out of his ears._ _

__Antonin Dolohov didn't care. Holding the velvet ribbon he’d removed from her locks, he knew that – whatever unpleasantness happened now – his witch had been worth it._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: mudak = "asshole" or "idiot", loosely; klyanus’ bogom = "by God", or "I swear to God"; chert voz'mi = "fucking hell"; ne glupi = "don't be stupid"
> 
> • "Pastime With Good Company" by Henry VIII is real, if you'd like to hear it:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_q4sclrHTtg
> 
> • I probably should have put this warning earlier, so I apologize for that. The Antonin in this story is not a villain anymore, per se, but he is also not the Antonin from my last story. He is DEFINITELY MORALLY GREY. His feelings for Hermione are one hundred percent genuine and, perhaps, have the potential to be transformative, but I guess I would put him at "true neutral" on the Dungeons and Dragons alignment scale, for the moment. I just don't want his darker moments to come as an unpleasant surprise for anyone. (Again..."Dark Daddy Dolohov," I guess.) Then again, maybe you're here because you *like* that version of him, in which case I welcome you with open arms into the land of Dolohov simpery.
> 
> • I am actually going to delete the "Major Character Death" tag due to some helpful feedback from Desiree1986 (Desiree, I'm '85!). There *are* going to be some character deaths, but for those of you I inadvertently worried I sincerely apologize; NEITHER of those deaths will be Antonin or Hermione. (That's not to say there won't be danger!)
> 
> • I hope this week starts off smoothly for all of you! <3


	6. "I Don't Think It's Wholesome in Nature"

<> <> <> <> <>

Stumbling back into the party as she sloppily tied on her mask and re-clasped the collar of her gown, Hermione tried to register all the sensations the last few minutes had brought – the cold marble on her shoulderblades, the teeth on her neck, the tongue in her mouth, the scent of birch and lust and mania, the hands hoisting her up as if she were nothing but thistledown, the new moistness in her knickers, and the noises of their heavy breaths, high and low, braided together in a cord she’d never wanted to break. Scanning the crowd to see if her friends had observed her utter decrepitude, she thought to herself – as always, even in that moment, attempting analysis – that it was not so much that she had never been kissed like that right after meeting someone for the first time. It was that she had never been kissed like that in her _entire life_. She lacked the proper framework to process what had just happened to her, or to conceptualize what she now hoped might happen on Monday.

_“In two days,_ ” he’d said.

By the time she found Luna and Rabastan, she couldn’t suppress what she knew must be a goofy grin. They were standing together holding small plates of more post-dance snacks, surrounded by several other chatting couples and, unfortunately for them, the two boys who had harassed Hermione earlier – _although perhaps I owe them my gratitude_ , she thought. They had switched from a waterless Marco Polo to some sort of “monkey in the middle” type of game, tossing a sizeable dinner roll back and forth while the “monkeys” between them were unsuspecting party guests. 

At the moment, the monkey appeared to be Luna. She stood, all tranquility, in the middle of their diversion, utterly unaffected by the bread sailing over her snowflake hairpiece – but Rabastan stared at both boys with twitching eyelids and clenched, trembling fists.

“May I please expunge these imps from the face of the earth?” he asked.

“No,” Luna responded, simply, with no rancour. “Welcome back, Hermione.”

He turned to Hermione, tenting his fingers and trying to affect a reasonable tone. 

“Would they be missed? Truly?” 

“Only by Cormac and Dean, I suppose,” Hermione returned, widening her grin. 

He sighed, watching the bread as it flew over their heads again. “I _hate_ children,” he grumbled. Luna caressed his face, and he closed his eyes, leaning in to her touch. 

“It’ll be different when it’s your own, Rabbit,” Luna said.

Now *that* was interesting.

“Did the others all go home?” Hermione asked. She was suddenly exhausted, overstimulated in the extreme, and she saw no need to stay now that her green knight had left the court. (At least she would not have to wait a year and a day to see him again.) The lush guest suite with the comfy bed that Narcissa always kept for her – much nicer than her own somewhat sketchy apartment – was starting to seem quite appealing.

The dinner roll, tossed by Cormac’s son with an exhilarated squeal, wasn’t quite high enough this time, and Hermione – only too late – saw that it was on a collision course with Luna’s face. Quicker than she could blink, Rabastan’s hand was there, snatching it out of the air just inches before impact. Staring the child down and actually _hissing_ , like Crookshanks would once have done, he ripped the roll in half and threw it on the ground at the boy’s feet. Both of the children yelped in simultaneous, vicsceral fear and ran out of the doors, their shoes squeaking on the tiles as they scampered. 

“Harry and Draco stumbled upstairs hand-in-hand,” Luna said, as if nothing had occurred, “And your Thorfinn went home with Tracey Davis, I think.”

_Good for you, my darling_ , she thought. _Bed her well._

As Rabastan wrapped an arm around her, scanning the room and practically daring any other urchins to come forth, Luna looked at Hermione, only now seeming concerned. 

“Your hair is down.”

Hermione blinked. 

The wand was upstairs in Narcissa’s boudoir – there was nothing to be done for it. 

Luna was a good friend – a _cherished_ friend, in fact. But the two of them did not have the type of dynamic wherein they discussed items of a sexual nature. Neither did Hermione and her roommate, Millicent – a relationship which was, admittedly, more complicated for different reasons. If Hermione talked about men with anyone, it was with the *other* men in her life – Thorfinn, Harry, or even Draco – or Gabriela, with whom she shared an office. She knew Luna and Rabastan probably did have sex. There was just something so pure, almost sanctified about her Ravenclaw friend that prevented Hermione from wanting to sully Luna’s mind with her own petty _cupiditas._

She did not, then, in this moment, particularly feel like saying, “Luna, I just let a man I’ve never met before, whose name I don’t even know, drag me out into the corridor and snog me within an inch of my life – and if Lucius hadn’t been coming around the corner I would have let that man fuck me _right there_ with zero hesitation. _That’s_ why my hair is down.”

Thus, all she said in response was, “Yes. It is.”

Luna’s only reply, after squinting at her in mild distress, was, “He stole it.”

Hermione ran her fingers through her own tresses and realized for the first time that Luna was right – without her even realizing it, he had taken the velvet ribbon from her hair. 

But she knew damn well that he had stolen more than that.

<> <> <> <> <>

Once all of the party guests had gone home, his grand old house was silent once more – but Lucius Malfoy could share none of its quiet, yuletide peace. Practically phosphorescent with animosity, he stomped up the staircase and pushed open his bedroom door so hard that it swung all the way around and slammed into the wall, revealing Narcissa, waiting on their bed – on her knees. Her hair and makeup remained, but almost nothing else did. His wife kneeled before him, meeting his furious gaze with a brazen tilt of the chin, wearing only – _Merlin help him_ – an emerald green lace teddy, perilously low cut with just enough fabric to cover her breasts and her –

“Bloody bouncing, BOGGARTS, Narcissa!” he shouted. “How in the _fuck_ am I supposed to maintain my _righteous wrath_ when you perch on our bed looking like _that?”_

“Ideally, you’re not,” she cooed, crawling on all fours to the foot of the bed with a pout.

_Fucking hell_. She still knew how to work him, all these years later.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to think of anything to make his twitching cock behave. He tried Umbridge. That helped somewhat, but Narcissa was too fucking powerful, and she knew it. He opened his eyes to fix her with a stern, professorial glare, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m ANGRY at you, you lusty wench! Stop trying to seduce your way out of this!” 

“Out of what, my love?” she whispered, patting the spot on the bed beside her, sitting and dangling her long, still-luscious legs off the edge. 

She was in thigh-high stockings, he could see now – the black ones he’d bought her. 

Of course she was. 

He squinted, conveying an utter lack of amusement as he started peeling off his robes. 

He was just getting undressed to go to sleep, he told himself. No other reason.

“You invited him to the party. I had _expressly_ – ” he spat, ripping out each button of his shirt as if they themselves had offended him, “ – prohibited you from _ever_ welcoming that reprobate into our home. And there he stood, with your invitation in his pocket – don't try to deny it you shameless, coquettish – stop fluttering your _bloody eyelashes!”_

“My sweet,” she said, hesitantly, gazing at his now bare chest with undisguised interest, “I don’t understand – how exactly is he worse than any of the rest of us? _Surely_ with everything he has done of late, he has more than atoned – ”

“You never saw him do the things I saw him do, my pet,” he said, shaking his head and stepping out of his pants and underwear. He was just going to sleep naked, that’s all, he told himself, as per usual. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of her triumph over him tonight. He _did_ like sleeping naked, though, and that was his prerogative as lord of this manor. He loved the feel of the sheets on his skin, of her body pressed against him in the night, of her arse and back fitting perfectly against his own –

Wait. He was saying something. Something important. 

“I’ve…” he continued, gatthering his thoughts and walking toward her as she spread herself across the whole bed like a banquet. “I’ve borne witness to curses from that man which only the most depraved and demonic of spellcasters could have envisioned.”

He leaned down and took her face in his hands, admiring the perfect symmetry of it. 

“You’re naive about him. You’ve always been.” 

He was more gentle now – still upset, but sapped of his searing fury.

She shrugged, pulling him down beside her on the bed, running fingers through his hair.

“I feel terrible for him.”

“I know. You took him under your wing even back at Hogwarts – ”

“How could I not?” she asked, massaging the back of his neck, eliciting a grunt of begrudging gratitude. “Don’t you remember what happened to him? To his parents – ”

“No, and _don’t bloody tell me_ ,” he snapped, wiggling out of her grasp and pivoting to lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling in what even he knew was a minor tantrum. He immediately missed those hands of hers, but stuck to his guns. “I will not nurture any sympathy for this wretch, just because you had a _crush_ on him.”

She laughed at him, propping up her head on one elbow. “I never had a crush on him, Lucius. He was quite a bit younger than us – and I only had eyes for one boy.”

That softened him a bit. He cast his eyes over to hers, sighing.

“Well, unfortunately he only has eyes for one girl – _our_ girl.”

“Poppet? _Hermione_? It was only one dance, and she seemed happy enough – ”

“No, it was _not_ only one dance – not for him, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” she inquired. She rolled over on her stomach, laying part of her lovely chest across his own, tangling their legs together and touching his chest.

His resistance against her feminine wiles was crumbling with embarrassing alacrity.

“He has long harboured a…fixation on her.” 

Her eyebrows shot up and her lips popped open in seemingly genuine shock.

“It goes back to the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries, I think. After that, he was _adamant_ that no harm was to come to her, despite any directive from Tom.” That’s what they called him now – just Tom, or occasionally “that bastard”. Not “our lord,” not “Voldemort,” not “my liege.” Lucius could no longer stop himself from reaching up and wrapping his arms around his wife’s back, feeling the lace under his palms. “When all that misery with your sister happened downstairs, I thought we might all be slaughtered for losing Potter – but I also thought that Dolohov might kill _me_ for allowing Hermione’s blood to be drawn in my house. He…is obsessed with her. I don’t think it’s wholesome in nature.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Should we speak to her – warn her to stay away from him?”

Lucius raised his own eyebrow then, but just one, to convey extreme doubt.

“She’s a Gryffindor.”

“Quite right, of course,” she conceded. “She’ll do the opposite of whatever we tell her.”

“Take it upon herself to _redeem_ him no doubt – make him a project. Like the elves.”

Narcissa giggled. “Merlin bless our sweet little lion cub. You’re right. But I don’t know what I would have done without her over these past few years.”

Lucius leaned up to kiss her on the forehead. “I don’t either. And thus, for now…we watch and wait. And we don’t say anything to her about it, not at this juncture anyway, but we also don’t give them _any more opportunities to interact.”_

“You never _told _me!” she protested, touching his nose. “I didn’t know.”__

__“But I told you never to have him come into our home, my love, and that should have been enough,” he growled, hoisting her on top of him in a straddling position._ _

__“Well, Lucius, you must address the situation as you see fit,” she said, looking down at him, adjusting atop the growth in his loins, and holding out both of her wrists to him._ _

__He blinked, utterly aghast at the depth and skill with which he’d been played._ _

__“You ribald minx. Did you disobey my directive on PURPOSE?"_ _

__

__She winked and laughed, throwing back her hair and exposing her white neck._ _

__

__The lace didn’t last long._ _

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • I apologize that Dark Daddy Dolohov wasn't physically present in this chapter. I promise you, for those of you who, like me, read fics and think, "Excuse me madame where is the *spice* that I ordered?", that there will be so much Antomione smut in this story that I genuinely hope you don't get sick of it. I just have to lay some more groundwork.
> 
> • Hermione's "green knight"/"year and a day" comment is a reference to *Sir Gawain and the Green Knight*, a medieval chivalric "romaunce" written in a West Midlands dialect of Middle English. The Green Knight disturbs King Arthur's court at Camelot (in order to take a very gentle vengeance on behalf of Morgan le Fay) and forces Gawain to seek him out again in a year and a day.
> 
> • Next chapter sees Hermione waiting for a certain familiar to show up at her job. She will get three distinct surprises.


	7. "My Crimson Lady, Hermione Granger"

<> <> <> <> <>

“You allright, ‘Mione? You caught that dose goin’ round?”

Hermione snapped her head around from her antique paned office window to meet the polite gaze of her ministry coworker, Seamus Finnegan, who was leaning in her doorway. 

“No, no – I’m not sick,” she said, smiling. 

He pointed at the window.

“Just been lookin out beyont all mornin’ – used to seein’ yer nose in paperwork.”

“I’m just expecting a couple of important birds,” she said, embarrassed, shuffling some paperweights on her desk. She hadn’t meant to be that obvious about it. 

All morning, she’d been hoping, on the verge of being pathetic, to receive a winged messenger from her green knight, as she’d come to think of him. She’d thought of little else over the last two days, wondering if he would reconsider his promise – or if he’d only given it to her to get her out of his hair before Lucius discovered them together.

And yet, something about him made her doubt that.

Without meaning to, she lightly touched her collarbone through the white wool fabric of her sweater – a sweater which was, by necessity, a turtleneck. She hadn’t had time yet to learn Narcissa’s spell for covering marks, and the one her mystery man had bestowed at the joining of her neck and shoulders was still quite present. She was glad for it, in a way – glad to see it in the mirror and know she hadn’t imagined it all.

Trying to change the subject, she asked Seamus, “How was your weekend?”

“Jaysis, I got right wrecked. I went with me mates to see Ireland play Portugal. Whale of a time. What about you? You go to that Malfoy party? Was it any use?”  
“I did! And it was. You should come next time, Seamus. You’re always welcome."

“I will _yea!_ ” he said, rolling his eyes with sarcasm and chuckling. “Sorry ‘Mione, but Lucius still gives me the willies. Good luck gettin’ them birds today, though!”

“Thank you Seamus! Good luck with whatever’s on your docket today – and tell your mother I said hello!” she called after him as he sauntered merrily down the hallway. 

Hermione liked working with Seamus. She had never gotten to know him that well when they were students at Hogwarts (she remembered the occasional arguments between him and Harry), but she found him to be an excellent colleague; he was passionate about the work they did in their wing of the ministry and, unless someone crossed him or the people he cared about, generally very pleasant. He, like her, was still unmarried, saying he could never find a girl of whom his mother would approve.

Almost immediately, his presence in the doorway was replaced by the other coworker with whom Hermione interacted the most – her office mate Gabriela, who usually just went by Gabi. Holding the bagged takeaway lunches that she’d procured for them both, she did a funny little shimmying dance on her way to her desk.

“Hey biiiiitch,” she said. “ _Please_ tell me you got a juicy message while I was gone.”

“No,” she confessed, with a sigh, grabbing some utensils from a drawer. “But if you’ve got my special delivery today, that’s almost as good,” she said. 

She had told Gabi everything earlier this morning – well, not the more _raw_ details, like how impossibly big he’d felt beneath the fabric of his pants as he had pinioned her against the marble pillar – but the _gist_ of what had happened at the masquerade.

“Sis I do _not_ know what you’re talking about,” Gabi teased, moving her chair on the other side of Hermione’s desk, as she usually did when they ate together. “Because I haven’t gotten my delivery this month from you either.”

“ _Gabi,”_ Hermione breathed, leaning across the desk. “I need the product.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“YOU got me addicted to it,” Hermione said, taking a small, sealed bottle out of her old beaded bag and sliding it across the desk as she took the food from her friend. “Here’s the payment. Now _please_ don’t hold out on me. Withdrawals are imminent.”

Gabi fished a plastic cylinder with a green lid out of her purse and slid it across to Hermione’s side of the desk with all the gravitas and solemnity of a funeral urn.

And then, in an instant, they were both cackling and opening their takeaways.

They’d reached an agreement several months ago wherein Hermione would share her own homebrewed contraceptive potion with Gabi. Yes, Gabi could have gone to a magical apothecary or a muggle doctor for something similar, but Hermione’s potion was (a) foolproof, (b) free, and (c) totally without side effects. She didn’t want everyone and their brother asking for it, so the exchange was somewhat “under the radar.”

As for what Gabi gave Hermione, it was much simpler – pure, unadulterated New Mexican green Chile, grown, harvested, and dried by Gabi’s mother. 

“Ah!” Hermione exhaled, dusting a bit of the treasured concoction over her lunch. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

“Pleasure not having _babies_ ,” she replied, holding up her water in a mock toast. “And I’m not surprised you need it so much since the food here is _ridiculous.”_

“It is NOT all ridiculous!”

“Like who comes up with these fucking names? 'Toad in the hole'. 'Bangers and mash'. Girl, that has to be the least appetizing shit I have ever heard, seen, or smelled.”

“What about the candy? Everyone says the chocolate over here is better.”

“Hmmmm,” she said, chewing a bite of her takeaway. “White people, maybe. It’s got, like, 2% cacao, _maximum_. It’s milk and sugar with a *dusting* of the good stuff.”

Gabi, despite her denigration of English confectionaries, was a delight – not the type of friend Hermione had ever had before, but one she was certainly glad to have now. She was pretty in an arresting way – a rubenesque body with brown skin and eyes, and hair so dark it was almost black, but with the front segment of strands falling down each side of her face dyed a strawberry red which always matched her lipstick and, usually, her nails. She wore form-fitting dresses and always carried a brass keychain with the numbers “505” engraved on it; it had something to do with her hometown. People in the office often misunderstood Gabi and thought she was from _actual_ Mexico instead of New Mexico, but she had gotten bored of correcting them.

The two women chatted about other subjects during their meal, mostly what tasks had to be crammed in the last two days before the holiday vacation. When Gabi was done, she put down her fork, dabbed her lip with a napkin, and held a finger in the air. 

“I know this was, like six topics ago – “

Hermione laughed. These types of conversational acrobatics were common for Gabi.

“But back to the chocolate, I actually have something from home you could try – this will send you into orbit I bet. 70% cacao, and I think this one has toffee in it too, maybe?” She started digging various items out of her purse and laying them one by one onto Hermione’s desk. “Just give me a minute. It’s worth it.” Lip balm, hand cream, pocketknife, hairbrush, tampons, mittens, muggle aspirin, a scrunchie, a candle, an extra pair of shoes – it was starting to remind Hermione of Mary Poppins.

And then, suddenly, right on her desk next to her sticky notes, there was a gun.

“Bugger all!” Hermione shouted, pushing back her chair and standing. “Gabi, you absolute barmy cunt, is that a fucking _firearm_ next to my quills?”

Gabi, having finally found the chocolate bar and placed it next to the gun, waved her hand dismissively. “Girl, it’s not loaded. I hadn’t pulled out the magazine yet.”

“Every gun is always loaded,” called Seamus from the other office, sounding like he was rattling it off from memory.

“Safety’s on, I check the chamber every few hours, and I never point it at anyone!”

“Good girl,” came the reply.

“Damn I don’t mind hearing _that_ ,” Gabi mumbled, putting back the lip balm and the scrunchie. Gabi’s crush on Seamus was long established but not yet acted upon. Under other circumstances, Hermione would have laughed, but she was still aghast.

“Gabi, I love you, but you _cannot have this in here._ This is not the wild west.”

Gabi, utterly unbothered by Hermione’s panic, responded, “Sis I _am_ the wild west. You think I care about the cops over here? What the fuck Nigel gonna do? I have a permit.”

“It’s not _valid_ in this country! And now I know that you’re carrying it!”

“Hermione, fuck, it’s fine, I’ll just get Seamus to do a fucking obivernate on your ass.”

“The spell is _obliviate_ ,” corrected Hermione, “and based on his track record at school, I would not recommend that course of action – not if you want my brain to remain unsplattered across the walls of this office.” 

She glanced up to see Seamus himself, who had – as if summoned – appeared again in the doorway with a curious grin. He walked over to examine the weapon and aimed a suave little nod at Gabi, who always thought his charming behavior to be nothing more than standard Irish friendliness. Hermione was starting to wonder if it was more.

“Seamus, you bastard, how are you so bloody calm about this?” she accused.

Ignoring her, he picked up the gun and pulled back the slide, holding it away from both of them. “Nice little piece, Gabriela,” he said. “Smith and Wesson? 9mm, Shield EZ? Pretty accurate little wanker actually. Probably a good size for your hands.”

Gabi, who sometimes lacked a filter, looked like she was about to say something ballsy along the lines of _“I can show you what else is a good size for my hands.”_

Hermione broke in, “Seamus, how in the hell do you know so much about guns?”

Seamus, instantly alarmed, blinked at her a few times, put down the pistol, and backed slowly out of the office. “I _don’t_ , as far as you need to know, ‘Mione,” he said, with only his head still remaining in the doorway. 

He looked at her friend and winked. “No snitches here, Gabi – just keep it’n your purse from now on maybe. I’m gonna head on, get some chips soon I think.”

“You got it!” Gabi said, directing a beaming smile in his direction. After he left, she turned back to Hermione and said, “You need to, like, calm down and eat this food I slaved over before it gets cold.” She had just managed to pack everything back into her handbag except the chocolate bar, which she now moved next to the sticky notes.

“Slaved? You just went down to the corner. It was your _turn_.”

“Exactly, you ungrateful bitch, I _did that shit_ – now sit the fuck down and eat your cacao.”

Hermione obeyed, but rubbed her temples in clockwise circles.

“Gabi, it’s illegal over here. You can’t just have this on your person.”

Hermione opened up the packaging of the chocolate bar. She could already smell it.

Gabi simply shrugged. “Sweetie, I know you’re trying to help, but I got this to protect myself, _years_ ago. You know I don’t have no fucking wand.”

She had her there. 

Gabi was a squib. Her family had been comprised of aurors, Ilvermorny attendees, and at least two players on the American quidditch team – and then there was Gabriela, wholeheartedly likeable but not even able to do so much as a “wingardium leviosa.” She had told Hermione that she felt like it wasn’t really possible to make her own way, with those limitations, unless she went somewhere completely new and different and started over – which had lead her here, to their department. Gabi likely wouldn’t be able to stay in England forever, but she was assigned to the ministry for up to two years as part of an exchange program. She had a bit of a handicap working the job, but since it was more legal and paper-pushing procedures than anything else, it was not as large of a problem as Hermione would have anticipated. To be sure, there were a couple of old timers in the building who secretly whispered their hateful opinions that squibs should essentially live muggle lives, as Harry’s aunt had done, and not try to seek employment in the magical world; however, Gabi’s “chill,” humorous personality belied a tenacious work ethic which Hermione found more valuable than any spell. 

“You’re right on one thing,” Hermione said, taking another bite of the candy.

“I’m right on _most_ things,” Gabi said before shoving in a mouthful with her fork.

“Well…the chocolate _is_ delicious,” Hermione granted. They both tried to smile at each other while chewing their respective morsels, until Seamus’s voice interrupted them.

“Well this is highly fookin’ irregular!” they heard him declare, before some kind of rustling, huffing noise made its way farther down the hallway to their office.

Suddenly, floating towards Hermione’s desk was a fluffy white cloud – a pristine nimbus, which somehow had paws, and a black nose, and two large brown eyes. 

_Oh!_

It was a dog.

“ _YAP_!” said the dog, waiting expectantly by the side of the desk, upturned tail wagging.

Hermione, for a few seconds, had difficulty processing what she was seeing. 

“How the hell’d a dag get in here?” called Seamus from down the hall.

Gabi, wholly untroubled, reached out to pet it, and the cottony creature obligingly rolled over on its belly, panting its way into a positively egregious smile.

“It doesn’t appear to be a threat!” Hermione shouted back. 

“It’s a girl!” squealed Gabi, observing the underside as she promptly left her chair and sat on the floor, all the better to scratch beneath the dog’s armpits. The canine stretched its front paws straight out towards the cieling, in a clear gesture of, “Yes, please, more.” The animal seemed to be some kind of a cross between a wolf and a polar bear cub, yet completely missing the aggression of either species. The dog moved her eyes over to admonish Hermione and huffed with acute disappointment, as if to say, “That is certainly a whole lot of _not petting me_ that you are doing.” 

Unable to help herself, Hermione gave up and joined the two of them on the hardwood floor, contributing her own scratches – and it was only then that she saw it. 

It had been easy to miss, before, because of the massive amount of alabaster fur surrounding it, but tied around the dog’s neck was a red velvet ribbon from which dangled a nametag and a cylindrical message tube. It was the same type of tube that Thorfinn would often tie to the leg of Huginn or Muninn, just a larger version – and Hermione knew in her gut, without even touching it, that the ribbon was her own. 

She felt a brisk chill of exhilaration. Despite looking for his correspondence all morning, he’d still taken her by surprise. She remembered the last words he’d spoken to her.

_“…my familiar will be waiting at your desk.”_

He’d never actually _said_ it would be a bird – she had just _assumed_ it would be a bird, because that was what most people used. Owls were the most common, and of course Thorfinn had ravens, but in her job she also interacted with falcons, kestrels, eagles, and, once, an albatross. (That one had a hard time navigating windows.) Even Gabi, powerless as she was, had an avian familiar, not with her today but likely snuggled at home – Mateo, the road runner, a strange little beast which looked nothing like its cartoon counterpart and was skittish around anyone except his owner. 

Hermione had no pet of her own at present, still unable to move past the death of the half-kneazle Crookshanks six months prior (by that point, he was ancient and arthritic, yet no less the spitfire). But as unusual as her youthful choice had been, she *never* would have considered a dog. They tended to be much higher maintenance, much less independent, much louder – in need of much more space and supervised exercise. 

She could not think of a single wizard she currently knew that had a canine familiar, and she tried to consider what it meant about her man in green that he *did*. 

But, looking at his fluffy angel, whose tongue was lolling to the side, she could not complain. She reached over to look at the name tag and tilted it up to the light.

“Hello there, _Mishka_ ,” Hermione said. The dog tilted her head at the sound of her name, still reclining on her back and enjoying the attentions of Gabi. “Let’s see,” she continued, removing the tube from the ribbon, “what tidings you bring me today.”

Gabi’s eyes got as large as golf balls; she had just then put two and two together. 

“Girl!” She paused in petting the dog, her hands frozen in midair. _“GIRL!!!”_

Hermione pulled her face into a contorted grimace of excitement as she unsnapped the lid of the canister, wiggling, acting like she was opening a gift from Father Christmas, and not able to muster up even even one sliver of embarrassment about it. 

Gabi giggled and scooted closer to her, whispering, “This isn’t even happening to me and I am _lit-er-al-ly_ shaking right now.” Mishka, unaffected by the elation, stayed flopped on the floor, slowly blinking, unwilling to give up on the possibility of continued belly rubs.

When Hermione unfurled the scroll – briefly noting the fancy, thick paper, but ignoring the letterhead to go straight to the text – she saw strong, slanted handwriting in black ink.

**My crimson lady, Hermione Granger –**

**I must confess that the hex you placed upon me – although you wickedly deny it – continues to plague me most severely; over the past two days, my thoughts have been solely occupied with fervent recollections of you. I therefore beg that you relieve my suffering and come to see me on the top floor of my office building. This time, I will wear no mask, and I will gladly give you the information which you sought at the masquerade. Would this evening be amenable to you, at six o’clock?**

**_Cor meum tibi offero, domina, prompte et sincere._ **

**– Your Rescuer**

_This evening!_ she thought, nearly delirious. _Six! Right after work! Good gracious!_

When she read the Latin phrase, she felt as if her atrial valve would burst. Gabi tried to grab the letter out of her hands, but Hermione pushed her away, standing and walking to the far corner of the room amidst her friend’s reproachful clucking. She wanted a look at the letterhead before surrendering the correspondence. There was a symbol – a simple graphic of what looked like a waterfall flowing off a plateau with a mountain in the background. She had to blink when she started to finally comprehend the letters embossed next to it – to understand whose hand had written these lines in black ink.

“You are, like, leaving me in hardcore suspense right now. Not cool,” admonished Gabi.

“ _YAP!”_ said Mishka, sitting up and lending her support.

Hermione could not speak. 

She could only look up at her friend in a panic.

“What?” Gabi asked. “Who is this guy?”

Her throat felt dry as she finally spoke. 

“It’s – it’s from Mr. Putorana. The CEO of Medimagic Industries. Thorfinn’s boss.”

Gabi’s exquisitely manicured hands covered her mouth.

Hermione stumbled over to the desk and leaned on it, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“It’s the man who cured the Longbottoms.”

<> <> <> <> <>

In his magnificent study, Lucius sat near the fireplace in an overstuffed, antique leather chair, smoking a cigar and pondering the issue of Antonin Dolohov. 

Narcissa didn’t like it when he smoked inside, even though there was a perfectly good spell to dissipate the scent, but she was gone to some damn fool baby shower and wouldn’t be home until well after lunch. Draco was upstairs in his own, smaller office, working on his Zambian magical school initiative, no doubt, and Bipsy was preparing some steak and kidney pies for dinner – leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He had told Narcissa that they should let sleeping death eaters lie, for the moment, for fear of provoking an oppositional reaction in the girl they called “Poppet.” But when Hermione had come down for breakfast the morning after the masquerade – Narcissa still being asleep, having been right and properly fucked unconscious, he remembered with pride – she had wasted no time in asking Lucius about who the mysterious stranger in forest green velvet happened to be. He’d managed to feign ignorance and change the subject with the skill of a conversational trapeze artist, but not before she’d indicated that the rogue planned to contact her in some way, this very day if he recalled correctly.

It would not do.

He furrowed his brows and blew a smoke ring, watching it ascend to the cieling.

He could not fail Hermione like he had failed Draco.

He _would_ not.

But before he could design a new plan of action, a decisive knock came at the front door.

He had no idea who it might be – had Narcissa ordered something again? _Morgan help us, please not more shoes_ – but he knew Draco had likely not heard the sound and considered the meat pies too important to interrupt. Putting the cigar out in the ash tray, he stood and took several long strides out of the study into the main foyer.

Lucius would have cause, over the next few weeks, to examine and re-examine the next few seconds in his mind – to wish he had simply never opened the door. That brief window of time stretched and crystallized into a stalagmite of self-recrimination, stabbing upwards into him at unexpected moments, when he closed his eyes at night, when he tied his shoelaces, when he ran a comb through his hair. 

_Idiot – an unopened door is a happy door._

But he did not know then, as he twisted the handle and pulled open the heavy oak portal, what could have been waiting for him on the other side of it.

All he could remember seeing was more smoke, not like the white tendrils from a cigar but black, a swirling, erratic black – the type of black smoke he’d not seen since –

And then, in half an instant, Lucius was flying backwards, unable to understand why he felt a thudding impact in the back of his skull against one of the marble pillars, and the crunch of his body landing on the tile. Then all he saw was more black, encroaching from the edges of his vision until it filled his eyes, like being buried in the sand. He was incredibly sleepy then. All he knew was the dark, and the slumber, but as he passed into the sudden night, he could just faintly hear the sounds of footsteps running down the grand staircase, the steps of his son, of his boy – slinging spells, and, finally, screaming. 

Just screaming.

_No. No, Draco._

_Run._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • 505 is the area code for Albuquerque.
> 
> • There is a formatting glitch in the dialogue with Seamus that, no matter how hard I tried, A03 would not let me fix, so I had to admit defeat in order to not delay the publication of the chapter – but I apologize for the messy look of it.
> 
> • I actually have been feeling so bad for using the term "Dark Daddy Dolohov" without crediting it to its original author, so I went looking in the comments section of FreyaFallen's "Azael's Chains" to find it. I am happy to finally report that the wonderful commenter who first came up with this moniker is NiniJune! If you ever read this, NiniJune, thank you for blessing us with that.
> 
> • The latin phrase Antonin signs off with, "Cor meum tibi offero, domina, prompte et sincere", is done with a sort of subtle, flirtatious blasphemy; the original is "domine", and it was the personal motto of theologian, John Calvin – "I offer you my heart, Lord, promptly and sincerely." Antonin changed the wording to "Lady", still conveying a tone of worship.
> 
> • The new name Antonin has chosen for himself has a particular significance which will be revealed later.
> 
> • "An unopened door is a happy door" is a quote from a character called Moss (Richard Ayoade) on what is probably my favorite sitcom of all time, *The IT Crowd.* If you like British humour, I think it's still on Netflix.
> 
> • Sorry to leave you in suspense at the end there. ((insert grimace emoji))
> 
> • Mishka the Samoyed is actually here for concrete story reasons, which, again, will be revealed later on, and – I promise you – not simply because I own a samoyed myself. I want to – wait, buddy, no, this story is not about you. No pal, I am talking to my fanfiction friends right now. No we cannot go on your five mile walk right now – oh good grief. Don't look at me like that.


	8. "The Baddest Bitch of Your Age"

<> <> <> <> <>

“Hermione, listen to me. You CANNOT write him back right now. That’s desperate. That is not queen shit, and you are a queen,” Gabi chided, waving her index finger.

Hermione, in her right hand, was holding a quill above a piece of parchment, while using her left hand to feed Mishka pieces of savory chicken leftovers from her lunch. They had attempted to get the dog to do a few tricks, but thus far to no avail. She had been sitting there, occasionally vocal but otherwise obedient, for the last half-hour.

“Girl you _gotta_ make this man wait a bit,” Gabi continued. “Trust me.”

“But…Gabi…we are holding his dog hostage. I _have_ to send her back to him.”

That was the excuse that she would use, she thought. Yes. That sounded good.

“I mean…she seems fine.”

They both looked at Mishka, who glanced back and forth between Hermione and the takeaway container, eventually mumbling something that sounded like, “ _Rao rao.”_

It was true – she was quite content in their office – but as much as Hermione would love to keep her there with them and avoid the accomplishment of any real work for the rest of the day, she knew she needed to come up with a response. Just holding the quill was making her anxious, though. She dropped it and put her face in her hands.

“What do you know about him, Gabi?”

“Putorana? Not much more than you do. He’s on some Willy Wonka shit though.”

Running her fingers through her hair, Hermione asked, “What does that even mean?”

“You grew up muggle – you know. ‘Nobody ever goes in, and nobody ever comes out.’ He’s a huge name, especially now, but no one ever actually _sees_ his face, you know? Stays undercover. Never has his picture in the papers or anything.”

Hermione fed another piece of chicken to Mishka and asked, “Do you know what the name means? Everyone seems to have assumed he’s Hispanic this whole time, but when we danced together…that wasn’t the accent I was getting from him at all.”

Gabi shook her head, derisive. “Girl that’s no Spanish name. I could have told you that.”

Suddenly, remembering her initial guesses about her mystery man when they’d stood by the buffet, she had a hunch. She picked up another piece of meat and held it aloft.

“ _Rao rao – YAP_!” said Mishka, lifting one paw and then the other in excitement.

“You still trying to get her to do tricks? She’s stubborn, like you,” laughed Gabi.

She smirked at Gabi, trying to dredge up the few phrases she knew in another tongue. 

Turning back to the dog, she said, “ _Privet, Mishka. Lozhit’sya.”_

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mishka laid down, regal and sphinx-like.

“Well damn,” said Gabi, leaning her elbow on her side of the desk.

Hermione leaned down to give the dog her prize, cooing, “ _Khoroshaya devochka.”_

She sat back up and folded her arms in victory, grinning across at her friend. “She does respond to commands, Gabi – she just learned them in Russian.”

“I guess that’s why you’re the baddest bitch of your age or whatever it was,” Gabi declared, giving her a high five across the post-it notes and paperweights.

Hermione wished Seamus had never told her about that epithet.

“But, like, what the heck even was that?” Gabi asked, digging in her purse.

Hermione shrugged. “I said, ‘Hello Mishka. Lay down,’ and then, ‘Good girl.’”

“How do you just walk around knowing that?” She was reapplying her red lipstick without a mirror, a feat that, if not inherently magical, was always impressive.

Hermione closed the lid on the container and dropped it into the trash can, much to Mishka’s chagrin, and wiped her hands on a napkin. “Actually, that’s down to Viktor. He primarily speaks Bulgarian, which is closer to…Macedonian, I think…”

“Blah blah blah blah big words,” Gabi mumbled, miming a jabbering mouth with her hand, which she did to keep Hermione in check whenever she got too esoteric.

“…but since his country was part of the extended Soviet bloc at one point, many of them speak Russian as well. He actually speaks four different languages. He knew I loved that sort of thing, so he liked to teach me little snatches of the lexicon here and there.”

Gabi tented her fingers, squinting.

“…why the hell did he teach you to say ‘lay down’ and ‘good girl’?”

Hermione, blinking in sheer panic, was doubly grateful she was wearing a turtleneck then, because she knew the red blotchy rash was already making its way up her chest.

“Actually just, you know what, Imma just – just forget the fuck I ever asked that.”

 _Thank you, Gabi – Merlin bless you_ , she thought, with no small sense of relief.

“ANYWAY, back to this CURRENT dude…if you managed to get you a sugar daddy…”

Hermione, despite her embarrassment, couldn’t help but chuckle.

“As of yet I have managed nothing.”

“Well, still, if you did, like, seriously, good for you, live your best life. Secure that bag. But how do we know this is him? What if this guy is…stealing his identity or something?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip and leaned back in her seat. Mishka, sensing a problem, walked over to lick her hand. Or perhaps she was just looking for poultry crumbs.

“I had not considered that eventuality.”

She picked up the message with one hand and her wand with the other. “Lumos,” she breathed, illuminating the expensively embossed letterhead. “The stationary itself seems legitimate,” she said, “although I suppose…someone could have nicked it?”

“Like…what if it’s his janitor? What if it’s the garbage man?”

“You are the _least_ helpful person on the planet right now,” she grumbled.

“Give me back my chiles if you’re going to act like that,” she huffed, flipping her hair.

Before Hermione could retort with a quip of her own, a tapping came at the window. She opened it with the ancient crank to see Huginn, the raven, perched on the sill. (Muninn, she knew, was missing one eye – something that had happened in the Voldemort era.) The bird took one hop inside and saw Mishka standing beneath it.

“Oh dear,” said Hermione, expecting chaos.

However, nothing happened. The animals simply regarded each other, blasé, and Huginn stuck out his talon for Hermione to remove Thorfinn’s message. Huginn knew that his master gave him treats every time he returned with a reply, so he was antsy to facilitate the transaction – never one to linger for attention, as Mishka seemed to be.

(Of course, she realized then, with Thorfinn and his boss working closely together over the last year, their animals likely were used to each other by now.)

Gabi excused herself to use the loo while Hermione unrolled the little scroll, which contained a copy of one of the many comics Thorfinn had drawn during his Hogwarts days – comics which, by now, he knew amused Hermione during her work day to no end. The nonsensical plot of this one had to do with Dumbledore trying to convince Snape to join him in throwing bread at McGonagall. She couldn’t prevent the warm smile that spread across her face, remembering those now-dead professors from those long-gone epochs, which seemed to have happened to another girl entirely. 

Instead of writing him back about the comic, though – there wasn’t much space in the tiny canister that attached to the bird’s leg – she wrote out two brisk sentences.

**Was your boss at the masquerade on Saturday? And did he just send me a letter?**

Hermione sent Huginn on his way, Mishka uttering a farewell “ _YAP_!,” as Gabi reentered the room, rolling her eyes and lamenting, “Okay, sis, as fun as this has been, I need to actually get some work done today.” She set up all her things at her actual desk next to the other wall, making her usual nest and lighting her candle. Mishka picked a spot in between the two of them, circling it several times before collapsing with a deep sigh. 

Hermione, following her example, started tackling some paperwork she’d been avoiding the week prior; something in her, disturbed by her friend’s suspicious probing, wanted to wait on Thorfinn’s response before she wrote out a reply to his employer. 

She did not have to wait long. This time, it was Muninn at the window. 

The response was short, but gave her what she needed to know.

**Yes, and yes.**

Before writing Mr. Putorana, immensely reassured that he had, in fact, not been _pretending_ to be Mr. Putorana, she scribbled a quick reply to Thorfinn.

**Thank you – I appreciate it. Out of curiosity, why didn’t you tell me it was him?**

As soon as Muninn took flight, she removed the larger piece of parchment from under a paperweight and began composing her letter to the CEO of MediMagic industries, which felt more surreal than she had the werewithal to articulate. This was normally the type of situation over which she would obsess, trying to make every clause as perfect as it could be, but she opted not to overthink the correspondence since she’d already kept his fluffy familar from him for an hour by that point. In the end, she thanked him for both his message and the mode of conveyance, intimated flirtatiously that her own thoughts since Saturday night had been in a similar vein, and agreed with undisguised enthusiasm (despite Gabi’s warnings) to meeting him at his office building that evening at six o’clock. Less for his eyes than to calm her own building nerves, she signed off with:

**_Audentes fortuna iuvat._**

She rolled the message into the tube, snapped the lid on, and re-tied it to Mishka, wondering if she’d ever get her ribbon back. On the other hand, it looked so cute around the neck of the dog that it was hard for her to begrudge the loss. 

“ _Dosvedanya_ , Mishka,” she said to the snowy-haired, smiling canine.

And, quicker than Hermione could blink, the dog was gone.

 _I will have to ask him how he does that_ , she thought, adding it to a list of many questions, precisely at the moment that Muninn flew into the still-open window.

Landing on her desk and scattering a few of the papers, he held out his talon so that Hermione could once again remove the canister and read the message from Thorfinn.

**Because if I’d had my way, he wouldn’t have been there.**

She was still holding the piece of parchment, considering all the perplexing implications of that statement, when Harry showed up in the doorway like a bolt out of the blue. She grinned and stood to greet him – he didn’t get to come over to their building much anymore, so this was a joyful surprise – but she stopped halfway there when she saw the disheveled state of his hair and look of absolute, unadulterated terror on his face.

“Hermione, I’m sorry, but – we have to go – please come with me, _now_ ,” he said in a rush, all in one shaking, exhaled breath. “It’s…the manor. There’s been an attack.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Later, during the week that followed, as Hermione tried to recall those harried minutes when they’d first rushed into Malfoy Manor, everything came back to her in a blur, a madcap deluge of sounds and scents and images: the vision of Narcissa, not histrionic ( _never_ histrionic), but trembling, with a straight line of tears flowing from each eye, kneeling on the ground, holding her unconscious husband’s shoulder in one grip and her hyperventilating son’s in the other; the smell of Draco’s blood, staining his shirt and pants in clean, brutal lines cut across his body; the noise of Harry screaming, “No, no, no, Draco, no, not again, not _this_ ,” as he held the wounded man’s face in his hands.

 _Sectumsempra_ , she’d known, as soon as she’d seen him. She hadn’t had to ask. 

Somehow, Hannah Abbott and her healer colleagues had gotten there right after they did, bustling about the foyer, casting spells and giving commands. 

_She left Neville and his parents to be here_ , an oddly detached comment echoed from the back of Hermione’s mind. Even in the chaos, she appreciated that.

Draco, trying to catch his breath – something inside him had torn – was strangely brave, taking Harry’s hands in his own as the healers put him and his father on two levitating stretchers. “Harry. Harry. Come on, Harry – I survived this spell when you did it, didn’t I? It’s not as bad as the bloody hippogriff, eh?” 

He reached up, for all to see, and kissed a nearly catatonic Harry on the mouth – right before his hands dropped and his head collapsed to the pillow.

“I have to take them, _now_ ,” barked Hannah. “Meet me at St. Mungo’s.”

As the healers apparated the two Malfoy men away, Hermione remembered the feel of Harry grasping her right hand and Narcissa grasping her left, the three of them holding on to each other for dear life as what they had thought was their new, safe, relatively bloodless wizarding world began to spin and discintegrate around them.

<> <> <> <> <>

Antonin Dolohov – or Putorana, as most people addressed him these days – reclined on the sleek sectional couch before the fireplace in the apartment that occupied the top floor of the MediMagic industries building, tapping the arm of the couch with a quill in an increasingly impatient rhythm. All was in readiness: the contract was prepared for his witch’s perusal; Mishka had been brushed, walked, and even sprayed with the little baby powder cologne she hated (every time, she rolled around on the marble tile in a vain attempt to eradicate it); and he’d even bought a new suit for the occasion, a tailored navy blue ensemble he had hoped would look impressive. At this stage in his career, she was just about the only person he _cared_ about impressing. 

And yet his witch was not here.

It was fifteen minutes past six…and she was _not here._

He picked up his wand from the couch and levitated the message she’d sent back to him from where it laid on the desk in his office over to where he sat by the fire, looking over it again to see if he could possibly have misread her emotions. He could not discern a single shred of hesitation in her words, and nothing in his distant but meticulous study of her over the past several years had indicated that she would ever be forgetful. It did not seem to be in her nature – which lead to the question of why she was absent.

Paranoid intrusives started to drill their way into his brain. 

_Gavno, has something happened? Is she sick? Is she allergic to dogs? Did she sprain an ankle? Has she had an aneurysm? Was she struck by a lorry driver?_

It would be a typical Tolstoyian twist in his miserable life for him to get this close, only for some random, senseless tragedy to keep them apart at the last instant.

Before his anxiety – which most of the time he went to great lengths to hide – could supply any more scenarios to send him further down his spiral, he heard a knock at the door. A wave of relief washed over him, so strong he could not even feel ridiculous for it, as he stood and walked through to the main corridor of the apartment. But when he opened his door (he’d left off the customary warding spells in anticipation of her arrival), it was not Hermione who was standing there, leaning on the doorframe.

Instead, it was Thorfinn, with an unusual expression of worry etched on his features.

“I’m sorry to bother, but…I just heard from Goyle. There’s something you should know.”

Within mere minutes, Antonin was down in the lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The comic that Thorfinn sends to Hermione is actually a reference to a series of hilarious Dumbledore comics, which you may have seen, that were created by a German artist. Here is a collection of the best of them:
> 
> https://www.boredpanda.com/irresponsible-dumbledore-funny-harry-potter-comics/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic
> 
> And here is a link to the artist's tumblr:
> 
> https://floccinaucinihilipilificationa.tumblr.com/
> 
> • New Russian phrases: gavno = "shit"; dosvedanya (not sure about phonetic spelling) = "goodbye", or "until we meet again"
> 
> • *Audentes fortuna iuvat* means "fortune favors the bold."
> 
> • ***What is Antonin making??? Will the Malfoys survive??? Will Hermione still get to meet up with her darling death eater??? ALL THIS AND MORE WILL BE REVEALED IN TOMORROW'S EPISODE OF...THE OTTER AND THE BEAR! Tune in, same bat time, same bat channel!!!***


	9. "A Crime of Rage"

<> <> <> <> <>

Sitting in a rickety black folding chair at St. Mungo’s, across from an exhausted, aubergine-clad Narcissa on similar furniture, Hermione looked over at the two Malfoy men who were laid out in parallel twin beds in the corners of the room and silently thanked whoever might be listening that they were both alive.

Once Hannah had told them all that Draco was stabilized and would, ultimately, be allright, Harry had apparated to meet his coworkers back at the crime scene, his eyes full of murder. He’d said he would return to the hospital later that evening and Hermione had agreed, gladly, to stay until he did, her early alarm for tomorrow’s work day be damned. Although he was clearly torn about leaving Draco’s side, he had mentioned it was vital that the aurors gather evidence as soon as possible, and she couldn’t blame him for wanting to take the lead with this particular case (she would have felt the same). 

A large part of that evidence would come down to interviews of both Lucius and Draco, as Narcissa had been away when the attack occurred and had only found them both an hour later, but for tonight they were both too groggy to be interrogated. 

They’d reached Draco in time, due to Narcissa’s quick thinking, but Hannah had warned them that he would be in acute pain for a while. Lucius was severely concussed and had a bleeding wound on the back of his head but otherwise, surprisingly, had not been dealt any permanent harm. They had given both men the same drug, which had them snoring on and off, only waking to make unpredictable utterances, such as, “You must be…very brave to…mention his name, or…very foolish” (Lucius), and “I mean…they were very fashionable in…about…1890” (Draco).

“I just…fail to comprehend this, Poppet,” Narcissa breathed in a long, weary sigh. 

She met the older woman’s eyes, feeling just as lost and trying to hold back tears.

“Who would want to do this?” Narcissa asked, lifting her hands.

Hermione shook her head. She used to always be the child who was chock full of facts, who had a million words to say, annoying everyone in a three-mile radius with her garrulousness – but in the face of this blatant shock, she was speechless. 

She wondered about Narcissa’s question as the woman stood, walked over to the bed where Lucius was laid, and touched her husband’s face while he murmured incoherently. 

It could have simply been a break-in, Harry had suggested – the manor was full of more valuable books, archives, and artifacts than Hermione would ever be able to catalog – but they didn’t know yet if anything was even taken. It also seemed unnecessarily violent for that purpose; there would have been quicker, cleaner ways to dispatch both Lucius and Draco. She felt in her gut that someone was making a point, and wondered if it was likely that the perpetrator had an axe to grind – if they resented Lucius and Draco being out of Azkaban, if they had, perhaps, lost someone in the war they could not get back. 

It bothered her, for several reasons, that they had used the _sectumsempra._

She hadn’t even been aware that, other than Harry and the departed Snape, anyone could even perform that spell. It conveyed a level of past knowledge of Draco’s life, or even intimacy, that, more than the actual injury, made Hermione deeply worried.

“Bsse boshuns, dazzad,” Lucius muttered, interrupting her nervous reverie.

“What, my love?” asked Narcissa, running her fingers over his scalp.

He pointed to the doorway with an ungainly hiccup. 

“These potions…are dastardly. They have me hallucinating a dog.”

When both women spun around, Hermione felt a stone land in her gut.

“Bloody buggering Caliban!!!” she cursed, looking up at the clock. 

It was eight – and she had told her green knight she would meet him at six. 

Mishka the Cloud, utterly nonchalant, took a few steps – her nails making a _tippy tippy tip_ noise on the tile – right into the hospital room as if she belonged there.

Narcissa put a hand to her throat, unable to formulate a response.

Draco, woken by the sounds of her entrance, suddenly perked up a bit. 

“Ha!” he exclaimed, also pointing now. “Doggy! Doggy doggy dog dog.”

Mishka trotted straight to his side and licked his hand, which was dangling off the bed.

“I love you, dog,” he sighed, scratching her pointy ears. “You my nurse now?”

Instead of being upset, Narcissa actually folded her arms and looked down at Lucius. 

“Do you see how happy he is, dearest, even in his suffering? This is why we persist in – ”

“NO, _woman_ ,” Lucius huffed. “Filthy, wolfish mongrel. NO DOGS in my manor – ”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence, though, before he passed out once again, his head falling back to the pillow, his mouth hanging open.

With considerable trepidation, Hermione got on her knees to look at what was attached to the canine’s collar – still her red velvet ribbon. It wasn’t that she blamed herself for missing the meeting (she could hardly have done anything else), but she wished she’d thought to contact Putorana somehow, through Thorfinn perhaps; she might have even tried to send her patronus, if she’d had a second to think about it. She didn’t want whatever this was to be over before it had begun simply due to a misunderstanding. 

However, when she opened the message tube – Narcissa looking on in silent curiosity – she could not have been more touched by its contents.

**_Krasavitsa –_ **

**I have attached a vial of a new healing potion which we have been developing here at Medimagic; it is not yet on the market, but I give my solemn promise, after extensive testing, in regard to its integrity. Please convey this draught to young Mr. Malfoy. It will put him into a deep slumber for at least twelve hours, but it will accelerate his healing exponentially. There was only enough time for me to craft one dose, so, for the moment, Lucius will have to put on his big boy trousers.**

In spite of the circumstances, she chuckled. 

**I understand that you will want to be by the side of your compatriot, which is why I apologize for my churlishness in asking if you would possibly be available to meet me tomorrow at the same hour we had agreed on for today. Aside from being afflicted by the lack of your presence, there is something I should like to discuss with you that is time sensitive in nature. Please forgive me. I have more to write but, as I know Narcissa will likely read this – hello, my friend – I will wrap up here.**

**P.S. - How fares your neck?**

It was the one ray of light piercing the gloom of the last few hours, and as such she could not prevent herself from smiling as she searched through the white fur of the dog, still nuzzling Draco’s hand with her nose, and pulled off the potion vial from the ribbon. She stood up, holding out the indigo liquid to Narcissa, along with the letter.

“This is for Draco,” she said. “It’s…from MediMagic.”

Hermione had expected Narcissa to be relieved, thrilled, or at least grateful for the free assistance of someone who was, apparently, known to her – but she read the message with a slight tremble to her wrists. She pursed her lips as she handed back the paper and gripped the potion, looking back and forth between Hermione and her husband; it seemed like she was trying to determine how deep of a sleep he was in. 

“You,” she whispered, looking like a deer about to bolt into the woods at any second, “had a meeting with…this man? Scheduled for today…in his office?”

Hermione held out her hands. “It’s allright – I needed to be here!”

Narcissa looked absolutely horrified. Hermione, usually sharing such a strong connection to this woman, felt out of her depth. She simply stood, wordless, blinking, as Mishka, perhaps sensing her concern, placed her body between Hermione’s legs.

“Come back, fluffy – cast me not aside!” wailed Draco, medicinally mournful.

Finally, the voice of her son seeming to help her come to a decision, Narcissa nodded briskly, glided over to his bedside, and coaxed Draco into drinking the liquid.

“Blueberries!” he mumbled, as she eased his head back on the pillow and sleep overtook him. She pulled the blankets higher, to cover his neck, and looked over at Hermione.

“Are you going to write him back?”

Narcissa had attempted a casual tone and failed miserably.

Perplexed, Hermione simply nodded in the affirmative and returned to her chair, pulling the rolling hospital table along with her as she went. She kept a quill, a small jar of ochre ink, and a bit of rolled parchment in her beaded bag with the undetectable extension charm, all of which she pulled out and laid in succession on the table.

“Please,” confided Narcissa, coming towards her with folded arms. “Please…tell him that, with all my heart, I thank him. Say… _spasibo_ , if you know how to write it.”

Hermione grinned, relieved to see at least a little of the reaction she had expected. 

“I shall, of course. Do you…” She hesitated, feeling terribly guilty. “Would it be allright if I _did_ agree to his request, and meet him after work tomorrow? I’ll visit here before work tomorrow, and then I’ll come back again Wednesday morning, first thing. Our holiday vacation starts at Winter Solstice, so I’ll have the whole day off.”

Narcissa took a step closer. “Is this visit…” she said, hesitantly, “…work related?”

Hermione took a deep breath and knew that lying would be futile.

“No,” she replied. 

Narcissa didn’t respond.

“I can put him off, of course,” Hermione said, all in a rush, leaning forward in her chair. “I am happy to do so, if you need me here then. I can simply explain that – ”

“No,” Narcissa said, holding out her palm, upright. “It would be discourteous in the extreme to withhold you from his company when he has done _this_ ,” she stated, holding the empty bottle, “for my Draco, and if that concoction is any bit as potent as it smells, I now suspect that, in a couple of days, we might be taking him home. No, my sweet,” she said again, glancing at her sleeping husband and choosing her words with excessive care. “I do not…wish for you to think…that I am attempting to stop you.” She took a steadying breath, smoothing her skirts. “I presume this is a result of the party?”

Hermione blushed then – she could feel it without seeing it. 

“Yes. But…at the time, I had no idea who he really was.”

“No,” returned Narcissa, shaking her head. “No, I certainly expect you did not.”

It looked like there was more, _much_ more, that Narcissa wanted to say – but instead, she leaned over the table and surprised Hermione with a warm, crushing, unladylike hug.

“Poppet. When you see him tomorrow…don’t go without your wand.”

<> <> <>

Dragging her tired feet up the steps to her apartment seemed so much harder than usual. She felt like the empty glass vial Narcissa had still been holding when she left the hospital – initially blue, but now utterly drained. She would have just enough time to change into pajamas and fall into her bed before getting up extra early the next morning to stop by again before work, she thought, as she opened the door into the kitchen and saw her roommate standing there, leaning up against the counter with folded arms.

“Hi, Mills,” she said, digging deep in her reserves to muster up a smile. 

Never in a thousand years would Hermione have ever thought she would be sharing a flat with Millicent Bulstrode. Even now, the absurdity of it often made her want to laugh. 

Hermione’s apartment wasn’t fancy; in fact, there always seemed to be one thing or another getting broken (the water pressure on the sink, the cabinet doors, some kind of lever in the loo). But it was convenient, it was relatively safe, and, for the time being, it was home. When Ron had walked out on her unexpectedly a couple of years before, rather than pay the fee to break the lease, she’d decided to ask around for a new roommate. She’d been approached almost immediately by Millicent – through Blaise, actually, she remembered with distaste – and, although her most prominent memory of the girl was of being smashed up against the wall of Umbridge’s office by her bulwark of a frame, she decided to meet the woman for tea and give her a chance.

All in all, she supposed she was glad she had. 

They were never going to be _friends_ , per se. (She reflected, taking off her shoes by the door, that there was no one in her life who was more the opposite of short-statured, bouncy, sassy Gabi.) There was a lingering awkwardness, although Hermione wasn’t sure if that was between them specifically or if it was just how Millicent was with everyone. But she paid her half of the rent on time, every time; she never had loud, partying houseguests over (or anyone, truth be told); and she was assiduously clean.

Standing there now, dressed in her customary black uniform, leaning next to the sink and crossing one long leg over the other, she regarded Hermione with with a bone-silent wariness. Still sporting a curtain of impossibly thick, onyx-colored hair and a somewhat permanent scowl, she was even taller than she’d been when they were in school (Harry sometimes called her “Madame Maxine”). However, the chubbiness she’d carried as a student had been replaced by lean, hard-earned muscle, everywhere except her left hand – which itself had been replaced by a metallic, magical prosthetic. 

No one seemed to know the details of how the limb was lost, and Hermione thought it was rude to ask; she’d just noticed it the first time that they met up for tea. Millicent worked security for Gringotts; Blaise had once mentioned a rumor about how there’d been some kind of incident with one of the dragons, and the bank had footed the bill for the new hand. It was that very prosthetic she was using now to push a tumbler of whiskey – likely the Talisker Storm from the upper cabinet – across the counter to Hermione, who, realizing Millicent had been waiting for her, was sincerely touched.

“I heard what happened,” Millicent said, frowning.

Hermione inhaled a deep breath and picked up the glass, taking a sip and letting it burn its smoky path down her throat. Millicent had even put the drop of water in it for her. 

She supposed that, with both her roommate and her…she wasn’t sure what to call him anymore…knowing about the attack, the news was likely everywhere by now.

“Is he going to live?”

It was typically blunt of her. 

Before taking another sip, Hermione replied, “Yes.”

Millicent received this information with no response. 

She then moved a step closer to reach the cabinet where the glasses were, pulling out one for herself. She towered over Hermione, looking down at her, her face unreadable.

“Heard it was a right shambles.”

Hermione felt a chill go through her just from remembering the chaos of the scene. 

“They…I’ve not heard much from Harry yet, and he hasn’t been able to interview either of them – Draco or Lucius, I mean. But they still have no idea why – what the motive would have been for something like this. With the manor being…what it is…”

“Toff Central?” Millicent quipped, taking the Talisker from above the refrigerator.

Hermione smirked. She’d assumed Millicent and Draco were cut from the same bolt of cloth when she was younger, but they appeared to have differing backgrounds. In truth, in all the months that they’d lived together, Millicent had never even spoken of her family.

“…well, they thought it could be a robbery, which I guess is the sort of problem you deal with frequently,” she noted, holding up her glass in a sad sort of toast. 

Millicent, pouring her own ounce, nodded grimly.

“Narcissa hasn’t even gone home to fully take inventory of what, if anything, is missing, but…something about that whole theory makes no sense to me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” returned Millicent, taking a sip and shaking her head. She seemed to stare out the window, squinting at a distinct point Hermione could not quite see. 

“No,” she reiterated, turning back to Hermione. “This, I think…was a crime of rage.”

<> <> <> <> <>

“I just sent my bird to Potter at St. Mungo’s, asking if there was any other way we could help,” Thorfinn said, sitting on the other end of the couch. 

Antonin moved his gaze from the fireplace to his friend. Too tired to even remove their lab coats, they had opened a couple of Newcastles in his apartment to decompress after the longest worknight they’d had in a long while. It wasn’t Antonin’s style, exactly, but he knew Thorfinn loved them and always kept some on hand.

“Did you…get a response?”

Thorfinn nodded, upending the last of the ale. “I did. He thanked me, especially for the elixir, and said…I’m probably just worried for nothing, Antonin, but…”

“ _Cyka blyat_ , spit it out,” he grumbled.

“…he asked me what I remembered about death eaters using ‘unsupported flight’.”

Immediately, Antonin’s entire body tensed. 

He finished his own ale, for courage, and slammed the bottle down on the coaster with a bang. Mishka looked up from the floor in drowsy accusation. 

“…why…on earth…would he ask you about ‘unsupported flight’?”

“He just now got a chance to talk to Lucius. Draco’s out like a light, obviously, and I doubt he’ll get anything out of him until tomorrow. Lucius is in and out, you know – a little wonky – but he insists that the smoke he saw coming in the door as he opened it was the precise same type that Riddle and Snape would give off whenever they used the spell. He swears it. Harry says it’s not like him to have lost the plot – says he’s got an ironclad memory, usually – and he thinks Lucius is probably telling the truth…”

“…even if it makes no sense,” Antonin finished for him. 

Thorfinn leaned back, his arm over the back of the couch. “Did you ever…”

“No,” Antonin said, without hesitation, glancing at his wand. “That spell…it’s not something we’re meant to _do_ , at least not in that form. It…puts a strain on a person. As I recall, Severus only learned it because Riddle forced him to. And as far as I knew…”

“…they were the only ones who could do it. Yeah, same here. That’s what I told him.”

None of it sat right with Antonin. Despite knowing now that Hermione was, at least, safe, a tendril of disquiet was shooting up from inside his guts. At first, after Thorfinn first told him, he thought the attack might be a random disgruntled citizen, enraged that former death eaters were still on the loose and trying to carve a manifesto into Draco’s body. 

But unsupported flight was not the type of spell a random disgruntled citizen could learn. It had come directly from Voldemort, and only from Voldemort. 

He could only hope Lucius was wrong. 

But he was not an especially hopeful man.

“Well,” Thorfinn yawned, “I’m knackered. I’m headed home, I think.”

“As you should be, friend, after my keeping you here so long. Please know that your paycheck next week will include a substantial bonus for all this.”

Thorfinn smiled and shrugged. “I’ll take that, gladly, but I don’t begrudge the extra time to help Draco. I like to take the piss out of him from time to time, but his heart’s in the right place, and his parents have been so good to…well, you know.”

Antonin stood up to shake his friend’s hand – the hand of one of only three human beings that he really, fully trusted in the world. “ _Spasibo_ , Thorfinn. Not…just for tonight.”

Thorfinn used his other hand to pat Antonin on the shoulder, being one of the few people who could do that without having to reach upwards. 

“See you tomorrow, _comrade_. I’ll be here like you asked when she comes – and I’ll contact the people we discussed to see if they can stop by for a visit. Make sure you get some sleep and don’t just mope into the fireplace all night.”

“I do NOT just MOPE into the FIREPLACE all night,” he growled.

“Oh yes,” he called as he walked into the hallway. “How could I forget? You also make ‘nefarious plans’ about kidnapping bookish swots and putting them under your thrall.”

He should never have told him what Lucius said that evening at the masquerade. He had derived entirely too much amusement from it and would likely continue to do so.

“See you tomorrow, Rasputin,” Thorfinn shouted, closing the door.

Using his wand, he sighed and locked the door from where he sat on the couch, then ran his fingers over his scalp in frustration. It reminded him of when she’d done it, her fingernails threshing through his hair as she’d moaned into his mouth in the candlelight. 

He wasn’t simply flirting in the message that he’d sent her: she’d been _impossible_ to get off his mind over the past two days. 

But then again, she nearly always was.

Alone, buzzed after three beers, and registering the sharp changes in his body as he’d recollected the feel of her lithe body propped up in his hands against the pillar, he wondered if he wanted to touch himself – to find some kind of release before sleep.

But he didn’t.

It didn’t feel like enough anymore, not after he’d captured her lips and smelled the jasmine in her hair. His own hand was nothing to the taste of her skin, to the path of his purple mark between her tits, to the sound of her laughter, like bells at dawn.

He would wait. He _could_ wait. He had her reply on the end table, placed next to the coaster. She was coming, tomorrow, and nothing would stop her this time.

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, she would be here – in his lair. 

He knew that he would taste her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • I realized as I was editing this chapter that I may have unintentionally channeled a little bit of the energy that Tom Felton has with his beautiful dog, Willow. (Anyway, Draco deserves a dog, Lucius!)
> 
> • New Russian phrases: spasibo = "thank you", and, believe it or not, *comrade* is not actually Russian in derivation; a Soviet would have actually said "tovarish"
> 
> • Although they don't show up in this chapter, I was talking with one of my awesome readers (Aeleth) and realized that I never actually gave credit for something important (or, if I did, I forgot that I did – haha!). The original idea for putting Luna and Rabastan together came from "Pictures of You" by Calebski. If you haven't read it and really enjoy Antomione pairings, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT! Once I read "Pictures of You," I couldn't picture Luna *without* Rabastan, so Calebski deserves credit for that.
> 
> • Well, the next chapter finally sees Hermione making her way to the MediMagic tower, to meet her green knight; however, there may be a metaphorical troll lurking under the bridge over which she must trot.
> 
> • Any guesses on who the visitors Thorfinn mentions might be?


	10. "I Know Damn Well How to Dissolve a Body"

<> <> <> <> <>

The MediMagic complex loomed over the newer, slightly more industrial end of Diagon Alley, among a slew of other business which had cropped up like toadstools in the last several years of the post-war economic boom. It was not a difficult place for Hermione to find, since it was now the tallest building in the area, with several floors for various purposes, and two large red M’s emblazoned on the side which faced the street. Rather than an equilateral rectangle, the structure was larger at the bottom and thinner at the top, like an obelisk in an old graveyard – except shiny and modern, with no moss. Hermione had heard many complaints about the construction, such as “bloody eyesore” and, from one old codger, “Typical flashy foreigners,” but she had been so excited to visit it all day long that its architecture was of little import to her. 

She had put extra care this morning into her makeup, applying some pearly coral eyeshadow, with soft brown pencil eyeliner that matched her hair color, and a corresponding coral lipgloss. She’d agonized over her outfit, eventually settling on the grey heeled boots which zipped up to her calves, a pleated grey skirt – striped with white and peach lines – and a matching peach turtleneck. Underneath the skirt, at Narcissa’s puzzling insistence, was a garter holster she sometimes wore attached to her thigh, which allowed quicker wand access than digging through her daunting beaded bag. Weapon aside, she had been aiming for something that was reasonably cute while still being professional enough to pass muster for her job.

Before she’d even gone to the ministry, though, her day had started with a visit to St. Mungo’s. Harry was there, as well as Luna, who had brought Draco some frozen dirigible plums from her last harvest – and Narcissa was still faithfully attending both of her men, Lucius alternating between cranky and bewildered. But Hermione was shocked by the state of Draco. The rate of his healing was genuinely phenomenal. His cuts had already closed, he was sitting up and speaking with no difficulty, and he had color back in his cheeks. Narcissa told her that he had slept the whole night without even a snore or a twitch of the leg, and that, if anything, Lucius had needed more attention.

“You would think _he_ was the one who almost died,” mocked Harry. 

“We’ve come a long way, _Potter_ ,” Lucius grumbled from his bed, reaching for the cold compress that Narcissa had brought him, “but I will still _end you_ in a pixie’s heartbeat. I am _concussed_ , do you hear me? I am in no condition to endure your insolence.”

“As for myself, think I’d very much _like_ to endure you later,” said Draco, winking at him, as Lucius mimed vomiting into the rubbish bin next to his bed.

They were now projecting that he would probably go home sometime the next day, and everyone in the ward, including Hannah, reiterated that they’d never seen recovery like this. 

Hermione intended to convey her thanks to Putorana in the most effusive possible way.

With some last wishes of good luck from Gabi – “Girl, go get your mans,” she had whispered, with a bubbly wave of her fingers – Hermione had finally clocked out and made her way to the MediMagic building, where she currently stood, right outside three sets of revolving glass doors. She took a moment before entering them to breathe, to steady her pulse, even to chide herself for being so childishly exuberant. 

She had no idea what was about to happen. She’d only danced with him once, kissed him once. She knew nothing about him aside from a name and a native language.

And yet she could not squash the jolt of electricity she felt as she went through the doors – could not dismantle the thrill of knowing that, in minutes, she would see him again.

As soon as Hermione entered the spacious lobby, the heels of her boots clacking on the marble tile, she noted an impressive army of security officers and grew nervous. She had no ministry-related reason for being here, no actual business, she realized – no _official_ pretext for seeing a man who was clearly so important. All she had was a couple of letters. Lamely, she held them out for the perusal of the severe-looking gatekeeper who approached her, but she was rescued by an unexpected defender.

“Granger’s been cleared,” said Gregory Goyle, appearing in uniform next to the other man, who was still frowning. “She’s headed straight to the top floor.”

The officer’s eyebrows shot up, showing Hermione that this statement represented an unusual breach of protocol, but he shrugged and relented, walking back to his post.

Goyle attempted something like a smile and waved at her.

“Hello Gregory,” she said, putting the letters back into her bag.

“‘Allo Granger,” he returned, nodding his head towards the back. “Come on then.”

Hermione had actually run into Goyle on a few occasions during her bar nights with Thorfinn, and, while never loquacious, he was much more civil to her than he had been in the past – having never forgotten when the “golden trio” saved him from immolation in the room of requirement. She knew that he worked with Thorfinn, but had not known in what precise capacity until now. As he silently escorted her through the long, busy lobby to the elevator, her observations of her surroundings were interrupted by an incisive voice trying hard to be posher than it was – a voice Hermione had not forgotten.

“I’ll take her from here, Gregory,” said Pansy Parkinson, standing by the elevator on perilously high black stiletto heels, holding a clipboard and looking – as much as Hermione was loath to admit it – absolutely stunning. 

Beneath her lab coat, she wore a short black leather skirt and a crisp white button up. Her sleek obsidian tresses had been cut straight across at her chin, her bangs in a Parisian fringe, and diamond studs sparkled in her delicate earlobes. She’d gained height since their school days (no such luck for Hermione), and even in a work uniform she was _perfect_ , down to the exactingly applied scarlet lipstick and winged eyeliner. Hermione suddenly felt much less confident in her dopey little peach sweater.

She had _not_ known that Pansy was an employee here. 

It was not pleasant news.

“The boss…” objected Goyle, clearly torn as he punched in a quick code on a keypad next to the elevator doors. “Boss says I’m supposed to take her straight up.”

Pansy took a step toward him, fluttering her long eyelashes adjusting his tie. 

“Oh it’s allright – I’m headed up to the lab anyway, and I know you’ve got much more important things to take care of. Let me _help_ you.”

It took every bit of strength Hermione had not to roll her eyes.

Goyle, of course, relented, barely stammering out a “thank you” before Hermione found herself trapped behind the closing elevator doors with the woman who had personally attempted to hand her best friend over to Voldemort himself. 

Pulling a stray lock of hair behind her ear and utterly unsure of how to navigate the situation, Hermione turned to Pansy as she felt them being lifted upward.

“How long have you worked here? Do you like it?”

In answer, Pansy reached over, actually pushed the elevator’s STOP button, and turned to Hermione with a look that could wither a mandrake.

“…is there…a reason we’ve stopped?” Hermione asked, panic rising in her chest.

“Is there a reason you’re fucking _here_?” Pansy spat, leaning the arm without a clipboard on the elevator wall and looking her up and down.

“I…I have letters…” she said, inwardly cursing her own timidness.

“I know you bloody have letters. I’ve been told you have _letters_ ,” she hissed.

Hermione, for the second time in two days, felt conversationally out of her depth.

“How…do you know I have letters, precisely?” she asked, her brows furrowing.

“Never you mind. Let me make this crystal fucking clear to you, Granger, and then I’ll send you on your way,” she drawled, folding her arms. “You are relationship napalm.”

“I am _what_?” Hermione shrieked, balling her fists – her anger finally erupting.

“You need your ears checked? I said it. You can’t keep a bloody man – not Harry, not Krum, not the one Weasley, not the other Weasley who ACTUALLY lost an ear – ”

_How in the everloving fuck does Pansy know about George?_ she thought, growing nauseous, stepping back to brace herself on the wall against the verbal assault, not even noticing that one more person had misread her relationship with Harry.

“– and then you go fuck Blaise behind my back while we’re together like a slimy tart – “

“Pansy Parkinson, you absolute minging _plonker,_ ” Hermione barked, stomping her foot. She hadn’t known Pansy was one of the other four witches, but she wouldn’t stand for this. “Your remaining animosity for me is abundantly clear, but do you really think I’m that vile? Do you actually BELIEVE I would have had so little self-respect as to go out with Blaise if I’d known that he was also with you, or with the other two women?”

Pansy stepped back, as if struck. “WHAT other two women?”

They blinked at each other for a few seconds in impotent wrath before Pansy continued.

“You know, doesn’t fucking matter. I’m above it – ABOVE IT, Granger. But the bottom line is that I don’t want you hurting our boss. He’s too valuable, to all of us.” 

She looked down at her clipboard, biting her exquisitely painted bottom lip in an unforeseen gesture of hesitation. Hermione folded her own arms, waiting.

“I didn’t fight, at Hogwarts.”

That took her by surprise.

“I had my reasons, but, regardless…I wasn’t there fighting with the rest of you.”

“I remember well,” replied Hermione, acid dripping from the syllables.

“Yeah, well, so does everyone else!” Pansy snapped. Her eyes locked on Hermione’s.

“For _aeons_ ,” she went on, “no one would fucking hire me. I languished folding fresh robes for first-years and and attaching sales tags to bloody…house-themed _scarves_ until Putorana took a chance on me, and now my life actually fucking means something.”

Hermione dropped her arms. As livid as she was, stuck in this hellbox with a screeching she-demon, she had also never seen Pansy be this authentic before.

“I…I get to put my brain to use and _help_ people now, and it’s solely thanks to him. More witches and wizards than you could possibly conceptualize are living better, richer lives, and it’s solely thanks to him. Don’t get me wrong – workers like me are essential here – but this business, this whole kit and caboodle, is his baby.” 

And just when Hermione had started empathizing with her, Pansy sneered, pushing the green START button on the panel and looking at her like she was less than a dog turd. 

“I know that he could do much, _much_ better than you.”

Pansy took another menacing step towards her as the elevator shifted back into upwards movement. Hermione lifted her chin, not giving an inch.

“If you fuck him up,” Pansy whispered, “I’ll _adavra_ you myself – and I’m an alchemist, Granger, so I know _damn_ well how to dissolve a body.”

The “DING” of the elevator sounded, and the doors opened.

“It’s not like you’ve got any parents who’d know you were gone, anyway,” she muttered, in a last parting shot before stepping out, leaving the scent of Rive Gauche in her wake.

Hermione was shaking. She could not even begin to move her feet from the sheer, white-hot rage that paralyzed her body. 

It was only the sound of another voice, wafting towards her from out in the hallway, that snapped her out of her incandescent fury.

“Where is my princess?”

She could breathe again, now that she had an ally.

_One foot in front of the other. Don’t let her win._

Hermione had never been so glad to see Thorfinn, who was wearing black slacks, a white button-up, and an already loosened cobalt necktie, waiting for her on a rolling stool right outside of what she presumed to be his boss’s office. Pansy, with one hand on her hip, stayed by the elevator, squinting a last wordless warning at Hermione when she came into the hall. Hermione just squared her shoulders and squinted right back.

She might not have parents. Not anymore.

But she had class. 

She would master herself. She would not be stopped, so close to what she’d anticipated all day – would not stoop to a catfight in front of one of her best friends, and especially right outside the door of the best kisser she’d ever fucking met. That was exactly what Pansy probably wanted – for Hermione to make some kind of embarrassing scene here in this corridor. She wouldn’t get the satisfaction. 

But it was Pansy who broke the staring contest first, at the sound of her name.

“Hello, Pansy,” said Thorfinn, standing and walking towards them. “Did you bring up that ingredient from the lab that I needed?”

Pansy seemed legitimately caught off guard, scanning her clipboard again.

“What…ingredient?”

Thorfinn, looking like nothing so much as a sweet, goofy Golden retriever, his blonde hair cascading down both sides of his face, opened both of his arms up wide for a hug.

“My sugar.”

“UGH!” roared Pansy, stalking back inside the elevator. “You never cease to _disgust_ me.”

But before the doors closed, Hermione had just enough time to see she was smiling.

(And that, to her, was the most bizarre segment of their entire interaction.)

“Bye, lovely!” he called out after her, hopelessly; then, he offered Hermione his arm.

“She wasn’t so _lovely_ on the elevator ride,” she hissed, nevertheless looping her arm through her friend’s. “Why didn’t you tell me she worked here? She _loathes_ me.”

“Because I didn’t think you would have come here if I had,” he teased, escorting her down the corridor and tapping her arm with his hand.

He might not have been off the mark there.

“She was a right proper cunt to me just now,” she confided, squeezing his strong arm. “But…thank you…for being here, Thorfinn. I don’t know _why_ you’re here, but I’m awfully glad. I hope you didn’t wait too long past your shift just to say hello to me.”

They had reached a tall, midnight blue metal door, marked with no name or number – the only interruption in the entire surface being the peephole. There also appeared to be some kind of call box to the right of it. It was, in fact, the _only_ door on the entire floor.

She had expected him to respond with some silly joke, as he always did, but when he released her arm and faced her, he looked serious – even a little worried. It was not an expression she was accustomed to seeing on him, and she found it disconcerting.

“Hermione,” he whispered, reaching out to pat her shoulder.

… _my given name_ , she noted. He almost never used it.

“Just…promise me that you’ll hear him out, okay? Give the bloke a fair shake.”

She was confused, but, utterly arrested by the severity of his countenance, she found her questions dying in her throat. She also didn’t want to make Putorana wait again.

“…of course,” she responded, trying to convey earnestness. “I’d…I’d never do anything that would embarrass you to your boss, Thorfinn – ”

Thorfinn barked a bitter, staccato laugh. “That’s not…what I’m worried about.” He rubbed his free hand down his face, seeming like he wanted to say more, but in the end simply nudged her towards the blue door. “Better go ahead and knock.”

She nodded at her companion, smoothed out her sweater, took a deep breath, and rapped her knuckles against the metal three times, remembering the Latin she’d written in her message to this man, holding it close against her fluttering heart.

_Audentes fortuna iuvat._

“Come in, Miss Granger,” she heard a deep, accented voice call from the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • No more feints, I promise - the next chapter, coming out tomorrow, sees our lovers reunited, and some delightful chaos will ensue from that point onward. 
> 
> • The Rive Gauche fragrance by Yves Saint Laurent was a big deal at one time. Unfortunately it no longer exists in its traditional form, but I feel that Pansy, in this universe, is talented enough to make it.
> 
> https://yesterdaysperfume.typepad.com/yesterdays_perfume/2009/12/rive-gauche-by-yves-saint-laurent-1971.html
> 
> I felt like the "vibe" embodied where Pansy is at, in this point of her career.
> 
> • Dumb question, but does anyone know how to put a photo in a chapter? I have this aesthetic collage that the lovely people on facebook helped me make a while back, but don't know how to embed it. I'd like to put it at the beginning of the first chapter just to sort of help set the tone.
> 
> • Massive freaking kudos to ArdentlyAdmired for figuring out that this chapter would feature Pansy!


	11. "We All Make Mistakes"

<> <> <> <> <> <>

Hermione had expected to see a sterile, corporate office, but she was shocked at the sight that greeted her upon her entrance. This was not just his work space; the majority of this topmost floor seemed to be his actual apartment. As she took timid steps down the hallway, to the right she found a vast, warm study with an oak desk and an old fashioned green glass office lamp, the wall shelves packed with books from floor to cieling. The smell alone was intoxicating – wood, leather, antique paper, and –

“Based on your reputation, I feared you might get lost in here,” she heard. 

Spinning around, a chill wracking her entire body, she saw him, smirking, leaning against the doorframe with folded arms in a silk, navy blue suit, his shirt open at the collar, his chest peeking out from underneath it – and his face now wholly undisguised.

_Prospero help me._

It was physically painful, how fucking gorgeous he was. She couldn’t think of a more fitting word for it, for the allure of this man looking down at her now, despite the latent melodrama of the adjective – he earned every letter of it. A few strands of his molasses-colored hair were dangling down past his brows, and his eyes were such a dark, abyssal brown she thought she might fall into them. They seemed to convey, again – just like when he caught her at the masquerade – a sense of _knowing._

“I – I’m so sorry,” she stammered, taking a step towards him.

He chuckled. “Never apologize for wanting to learn, _umnitsa_ ,” he said. “It’s one of the things that I love about – ah, _pizdets_ , I am getting ahead of myself.” 

He shook his head, bit his lip (a gesture that, on Pansy, Hermione had found odd, but on this man she somehow found amazingly attractive), then stood to his full, impressive height and gestured to the surrounding apartment. 

“Thank you for coming to visit me this evening, despite the circumstances.”

“No sir, thank _you_ for what you did, for the Malfoys,” she effused, clasping her hands together, suddenly unaware of what to do with them in the face of his melting gaze. “I honestly don’t know how to convey my full gratitude to you.”

That was a lie. She had a few ideas, depending on how the night went.

“Don’t worry a bit,” he said, taking a step towards her. “And Thorfinn stayed to help me with it, as well, so he deserves part of the credit. How is he? Draco, I mean.”

“Shockingly improved,” she returned, looking up at him, trying to maintain a vaguely normal facial expression while drinking in every little part of him that she hadn’t been able to see two nights before. “The hospital staff are universally in awe.”

“This is good to hear. It was promising in the trials and should be accessible to everyone within the next two months, but…I won’t bore you with business. At least not yet.”

She could listen to him talk all day, actually, without ever getting tired of hearing that accent of his, but she held her tongue as he reached out his hand to her.

“You’ve had a stressful twenty-four hours. Would you care to join me for a drink?”

Would she ever.

She took his hand, the long fingers seeming to dwarf her own, and followed him into the hall and through an archway into a sleek, open kitchen and living room, with tall, opulent glass windows that overlooked all of Diagon Alley below. She could not even begin to think of what a place like this would cost. Then again, the whole building was his.

“My job…” he said, seeming to follow her thoughts, “is not, sometimes, a nine-to-five, as you say. So for the time, it’s easier to simply live here…although I have other plans.”

Overwhelmed by the difference between his fancy accommodations and her own, with the popcorn cieling and broken fridge handles, she managed to spy two other doors, one which looked like the way to the loo, and another which she presumed lead to the bedroom – but a white ball of fuzz was blocking her view of his bed.

“Mishka!” She exclaimed, kneeling down as the fuzz advanced towards her, assaulting her with a sloppy kiss. She heard Putorana laughing and moving in the kitchen, opening cabinets and pouring something into glasses. “ _Lozhit’sya_!” she commanded. Mishka immediately laid down, then rolled over to receive the obeisance of belly rubs she clearly felt she was owed. When Hermione looked up into the kitchen, her gentleman seemed to have frozen, holding two cocktail glasses in midair.

“ _Vy govorite po-russki?_ ” he asked, his brows raised.

“Just a few phrases,” she admitted, standing up again. “But I’m happy to learn more.”

She was still a Gryffindor, after all – playing coy did not suit her. 

That declaration seemed to agree with him. He approached her, never losing his smirk, holding out a gillywater cocktail just like the ones she’d been drinking at the party.

“Thank you so much,” she said, taking it from him. “Although I might not pass muster in the language department, I did do a little research about your familiar.” 

By “doing research,” she had meant that she and Gabi were crowded around the latter’s smartphone, giggling and reading over muggle Wikipedia during their lunch break.

“I am not even remotely surprised,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “Please join me by the fire, if it is agreeable, and regale me with your findings.”

She perched on one side of the sectional and he on the other. She could not help but observe a couple of curious artifacts above the fireplace, at odds with the metropolitan decor: some kind of large, tawny animal pelt, and two massive antlers hanging above it. 

“I…think she’s a samoyed?” She tried to get the pronunciation right, as many people seemed to make the mistake of pronouncing it like the girl scout cookie. 

Raising his lean arm over the back of the couch, he nodded in approval.

(Why did that gesture _do_ something to her, every time? What was _wrong_ with her?)

The dog in question trotted over to circle in front of the fire, collapsing with a huff.

“They…were bred by the Nenets people of Siberia. They’re sled dogs, and…”

She looked back up at the pelt, something clicking in her mind.

“…reindeer herders, originally. They take extensive grooming, and need dedicated exercise – they are one of the thirteen breeds still genetically closest to wolves.”

She felt that she was rambling, _again_ , and didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk yet, but it was taking all the distraction in the world to prevent her from crawling across the sectional on all fours and peeling this god of a man out of his pretty blue suit.

He reached out his leg, gently nudging the canine’s paw, eliciting a pathetic grunt.

“Only wolfish in _appearance_ , as I am sure you have already determined,” he said. 

In clear irritation at the interruption, Mishka stood, uttered a martyred whine, stretched her paws, and trotted through the open door into the bedroom to continue her nap.

“Yes…she became quite the darling of my office. I…also saw that her name means something along the lines of ‘baby bear’,” she said, taking a sip of her cocktail. It was excellent. This man struck her as someone who was, across the board, meticulous, even in little details like the mixing of a drink. “Thank you for this, really,” she gushed, toasting him. “You seem to be as adept with cocktails as you are with spells and elixirs.”

“ _Pozhaluysta,_ ” he returned with a broad grin. “I…don’t often have cause to make them.”

Prodded by the warmth of the fire, he stood up briefly to take off his coat, placing it on a hanger in the corner as he spoke to her, rolling up his shirt sleeves – the definition in his forearms now highlighted in the glow of the hearth.

“As for the familiar,” he continued, “I wish that you could have seen her when I first got her. She’s more than four stone now, but as a puppy? Ah! _Moy Bog_ ,” he breathed, clutching his chest. “She would have broken your heart. And yes, she looked exactly like a polar bear cub when I brought her home, so I had no choice.”

“Is she,” she ventured, pointing up to the antlers, “a hunter, then? Are _you_?”

He threw back his head and laughed, exposing his Adam’s apple. 

“Not unless you count hunting down spell ingredients – _and_ lovely little women in red dresses who get harangued by children at parties. That’s my quarry of late,” he said, not breaking eye contact with her as he took a sip of his own drink. 

Hermione had wondered if it was the mask that had liberated him before – if he would be more shy without it. She was pleased to see that was wrong.

“And are you successful in that enterprise?” she asked, crossing her legs and fluttering her own eyelashes. If a bitch like Pansy could pull it off, damnit, so could she.

“That remains to be seen,” he growled, his smile full of danger. 

That’s when it washed over her again – the abundant flooding of familiarity, the same she’d felt when they were standing by the snack tables, but could not exactly pinpoint.

“What are you thinking, Miss Granger?” he asked, taking another drink.

“I’m…sorry,” she replied, feeling suddenly bashful, putting down her drink and looking up at the antlers again, gathering her thoughts. “I know you’ll think I’m a nutter for saying this. I just…can’t shake this feeling that I know you from somewhere.”

He smiled, a little wistfully then, placing his cocktail on the small glass table nearby.

“You mean before Saturday? Well, we _did_ have a couple of previous interactions.”

“We did?!” she exclaimed, sitting up, scooting a little closer to him. “Where? When?”

“I didn’t have a beard back then,” he clarified, “and I was markedly…more disheveled.”

It was in that instant, as she started to imagine what he would look like without a beard, that the recognition just began to trickle into her consciousness. But it wasn’t until he rolled his forearm over, strangely without an ounce of fear, exposing an ominous black mark she knew too well, that the memories fully hit her – all at once, like a barreling train.

_A sudden slashing movement from the wand of a death eater she’d just silenced, his mask almost obscured in darkness as a streak of vicious purple flame hit her in the chest. “Oh!” she’d breathed, before falling. The white sheets, the days of potions._

_Porcelain cups and plates crashing to the ground, Hermione aiming a full body-bind, the decision she made to be merciful, despite Ron’s disagreement. Two death eaters, one who would become her friend and one who sat before her now, gazing up at her as if they wanted, desperately, to speak before she altered their memories._

_Apparently not well enough – not as ironclad of a job as she’d done on her parents._

_These men were stronger._

_The trials. The sentencings. The mugshots in the Prophet._

_Sitting with Harry, holding him close as he recounted this man’s incendiary death._

_Thorfinn’s words to her at the party._

_“…and he never fucking got over it.”_

_“…you bested him and it wrecked everything he thought he believed.”_

_“…trying to get you all out of there, hide you somewhere safe.”_

_“…then you beat him again and made him love you all the more.”_

It all made a terrible, crushing kind of sense – just far too late – as Antonin Dolohov reached his tattoed arm across the couch and grabbed Hermione’s hand.

<> <> <> <> <>

Within seconds, Hermione had reached underneath her skirt and pulled out her wand, aiming it at his head. It did something to him to know that was where she kept it.

“Always prepared, my _krasavitsa_. I expected no less,” he growled.

“Dolohov,” she breathed, not moving an inch, not even removing her hand.

Undaunted, he moved closer to her on the couch, rubbing his thumb across her palm.

“I’ve obliviated you once and I’ll do it again,” she said, her lips pursed and brows furrowed. “You’ve made a complete _fool_ of me. I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Not nearly as much as I will enjoy what is to come, if you allow it,” he whispered. 

As fierce as she was in this moment, his powerful witch, she still somehow looked soft, inviting, delectable, swathed in peach and begging to be zipped out of her silver boots. 

Whatever happened now, it was a relief, not to have to hide anymore – to be recognized by her. He was fairly confident she would not, in fact, curse him, because – from what he knew of her – her curiosity would win over her anger. 

But she had not yet moved her wand. 

Her emotions, even now, were still so open to him; as she perched on the end of the couch, every muscle tense and ready to bolt, her wand grip never wavering, Antonin could see her struggling with a wide range of feelings upon learning the truth – revulsion, shock, vexation, and indignation, but also that same desire as before, and intrigue, and, still, perhaps, even the young, tender bud of affection. It was all there, writ large on her magnificent little face, and he was not sure yet which would triumph.

“I don’t…” She yanked her hand from his grasp, irritation plain on her features. “I don’t remember you being so _bloody good looking_ ,” she spat.

He laughed then – he couldn’t help it. It thrilled him to hear her say it.

“We all make mistakes,” he said, with his best roguish smirk.

“You fucking…CAD!” she screamed, poking him in the forehead with the wand. 

“You were trying to thwart me and everything I stood for at the time,” he said, magnanimously. “You might not have been able to pay much attention.”

( _He_ had paid attention, though. It had been impossible not to.)

“I’m going to _thwart_ a hole in your head unless you give me some answers,” she hissed. 

Antonin relished seeing this side of her, his lioness. It almost made him want to provoke her more and more, but he could explore that vein later – he had to tread carefully now.

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ , first of all.” She pulled back her wand a few inches, but held it aloft. “Harry said there were only _bits_ of you left after the explosion with the aurors – just an arm and some toes. Whose were the bits?!?” she shrieked.

He simply raised his eyebrows. 

He expected she would figure it out and, yet again, was not disappointed.

“Wait,” she said, an expression of revulsion blooming on her face. “Amycus Carrow. Harry said…that he’d been mortally wounded but that no one ever found a body.”

“I found one,” he replied, mildly, leaning back into the couch, hands behind his head.

“You faked it all! _None_ of the aurors accidentally exploded you. Morgan save us, how long were you carrying around those body parts in the event of you being caught?”

He smiled. He doubted she really wanted to know.

“Never bloody mind,” she said, rapidly shaking her head. She stood up from the couch, taking deliberate, careful steps, her wand still trained on him. He made no move.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked. She almost seemed…hurt. 

This, he did _not_ like, just as when he had to leave her at the party.

Slowly, he stood, both of his hands held in the air to show he meant no harm.

“I wanted…to have a chance to connect with you before you knew who I was,” he whispered, as if to a skittish horse. “The masquerade provided that. You would _never_ have given me the opportunity to talk to you otherwise, and you know it.”

She seemed to agree, briefly dipping her head to the side in acknowledgement. 

“I have _not_ been trying to make a fool of you, Miss Granger. Every word I’ve said to you, every glance, every touch, every taste – ” He saw her tremble, and try to master herself. He took one short step closer. “ – has been in earnest.”

She was inhaling deep breaths now. Tentatively, gently, he reached out to touch her shoulder. He took one more step, and he thought he could just barely smell jasmine. 

She did not retreat, his brave one. All he wanted in the world was to hold her, tell her everything was going to be allright, love her until her doubts were immolated by his heat. 

“And, now, you possess my true identity,” he went on. “There are people who would pay for that information, so I am trusting you in this moment, _ponimayesh’_?”

“I…I don’t know that one,” she stammered. 

“‘Do you understand?’” he translated, softly. “And I am asking you, in turn, to trust me.”

“No, NO, Dolohov, I DON’T understand _any_ of this,” she said, her voice shaky, “and why would I trust you? What reason would I _possibly_ have to do that?”

“Because,” he said. 

In one smooth, rapid movement, he knocked her wand to the floor with a clatter and pulled her body to his, eliciting an ethereal gasp as he wrapped his arms about her waist.

“I know how to bring back your parents’ memories.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: umnitsa = "smart girl" or, if you like the *Jurassic Park* version, "clever girl"; pizdets = literal meaning is "cunt" but is generally used to describe a situation going awry; Vy govorite po-russki? = "do you speak Russian?"; pozhaluysta = "you're welcome", although this one confuses me because it seems so similar to the word for "please"; moy Bog = "my God"
> 
> • I know I left you in a rough place last time, so to make up for it I've stayed up late to post this one overnight, so those of you looking forward to the updates will have it right when you wake up. <3
> 
> • Generally in Harry Potter fanfics, and in the books themselves, not much reference is made to conventional muggle religion – but you will notice that Antonin has some odd blasphemies that he throws around (especially as he gets worked up in the chapters to come). His babushka, who raised him for a long time, has an interesting relationship with both magic and Orthodox Christianity which will be shown a little in later chapters. (Just wanted to throw that out there in case this was confusing.)
> 
> • Prospero is the name of the wizard in Shakespeare's *The Tempest* and is, by some critics, considered to be some sort of representation of the author himself.
> 
> • Two more chapters coming that will be chock full of more Antomione interaction. 
> 
> • I just want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, how much your comments mean to me. :-)


	12. "Empirical Evidence"

<> <> <> <> <>

“You _what?”_

This could not be happening. Hermione could not be wrapped in the embrace of a man who’d almost killed her, hating him and wanting him in the same instant – smelling his arboreal scent, hearing him actually say out loud that he could…

_No. Don’t do it. Don’t bloody do it, Hermione – not in front of him._

But despite her every intent to avoid it, there were, all at once, tears in her eyes.

He touched his fingers to her chin and lifted her head, looking dismayed in the extreme.

“ _Krasavitsa_ ,” he crooned, his own eyes wide. She would have laughed at the befuddled expression if she could have mustered the levity. “Please… _please_ don’t cry.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.” 

Why was she apologizing to _him_ , the monster – the one who’d cursed her, lied to her, seduced her without ever undressing her? She didn’t have the wherewithal to analyze it. 

“This is…this is a great deal to process all of a sudden, and…” 

She sniffled, looking into the fireplace and hating herself. 

“…it’s too _much_ ,” she continued, “and I just…frankly can’t handle you joking with me about my parents right now. Pansy was already having a go at me in the elevator about it, so I’m sensitive and…I’m sorry. I don’t usually do this. It’s just a bit raw.”

She raised her eyes to him and saw the pure fury that ignited in his pupils. He wrapped his arms around her waist again; she could feel him slightly shaking.

“Pansy? You’re telling me… _Parkinson_? She did…what? She wasn’t even supposed to – _cyka blyat_ , my EXPRESS directive to Goyle was to…”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, then held her close, digging his fingers into her back.

She should have fought him.

She _knew_ she should have fought him, instead of collapsing into the hug.

She _would_ fight him. 

In a minute.

“Hermione.” 

At the beautiful sound of her name on his lips – the first time that she had heard it from him – her body completed its betrayal. She could not move. It felt too…

She was teetering on the edge of wrapping her own arms around him in return when she heard a voice she knew well from some kind of intercom in the apartment.

“I have the visitors,” it said.

“Thank you,” Dolohov called out. “Give me three minutes, please.”

He released her from his embrace, reaching out to wipe her tears with his thumbs.

“I will deal with Pansy,” he said, with a new darkness she had not yet detected. “But for now, you must know that I would _never_ joke with you about this.”

There was something about his hands touching her cheeks that rendered her docile, all the invective she had prepared withering on her tongue before it could bloom.

He leaned down, his face close to her own, and whispered.

“My own parents…were taken from me.”

She could hear it, briefly, from the slightest crack in his deep voice – a stab of pain from an old wound that had never quite healed correctly.

“We…took yours from you,” he continued. “You did what you had to do because of us. But it is not too late for you to get them back – and you deserve to have them.”

“But….Dolohov,” she said, shaking her head. “I have read every book, every scroll, every resource over the last several years. I’ve talked to every witch and wizard…”

“You have not talked to me, my _L’venok.”_

“You were _dead_.”

“I’m not anymore,” he uttered, running his fingers through her hair.

“Dolohov…” she snapped in irritation, annoyed at how much she enjoyed the touch of a murderer, “I’ve done everything that can be done, and it’s just not _possible.”_

“Did you think it was possible for me to fix the Longbottoms?”

She had no response. 

All her efforts were going towards squashing her fresh, nascent hope.

“It’s the same spell: mental regeneration. And their case was far, _far_ worse. It is complicated, ritual magic, and requires ingredients from all over the globe, but it worked. I…waited to reveal myself to you until I was absolutely sure I could do it.”

Slowly, but firmly, Hermione extricated herself from the warmth of his grasp. 

“I have not _seen_ the Longbottoms. I have only seen pictures,” she declared, hoping that folding her arms would project an image of being more resolute than she was. “No one outside of this lab knows if they are truly themselves.”

He smiled. “I knew you would say this. You like empirical evidence. I am the same.” 

He took a few steps back, not removing his gaze from her, towards a framed picture on the wall; from a distance, she could only discern the shapes of people and what looked like teepees. He shifted the photo and pressed the button which was hidden underneath.

“Thorfinn. Please bring them in.”

Hermione heard the sound the door opening, then of footsteps in the little hallway that lead to the study and the living room. She looked down at the drink.

“Is this poisoned?”

He laughed, showing his Adam’s apple again. “Never. Not for you, anyway.”

She downed the rest of it in one gulp, sensing she might need it for what was coming.

Frank and Alice Longbottom entered the living room, exuding a somewhat adorable matching quality in their knitted, striped v-neck sweaters, like the proverbial coats of many colors, and their once dark hair, now silver, cut short on both of their heads. Frank removed the arm that had been wrapped around his wife to reach out a hand to Dolohov, who shook it enthusiastically, but Alice would settle for no less than a hug. 

The amiable chatter bouncing between the three of them could not even register on her eardrums. She simply could not believe she was standing here witnessing these two people, irrevocably shattered so long ago, now whole – and even smiling.

“ _Spasi_ – thank you, for coming by,” Dolohov corrected himself.

“Oh, anything for Mr. P!” said Frank, with a grin.

“And are you kidding?” added Alice. “We were so excited to meet one of our boy’s school friends – since we missed his entire time at Hogwarts!” 

Both of them looked at Hermione then. Burying her shock, she smiled in return.

“It’s so good to meet you, Miss Granger,” ventured Alice. “Neville told us that you were the most brilliant witch in his year, by a country mile.”

“Oh,” she stammered. “I – I don’t think that was true, surely – “

“She was,” interjected Dolohov. “I have it on good authority.” 

This man who had almost destroyed her once was beaming at her now, adoration clear in his features, destroying her all over again in a wholly different way. 

Unable to break his gaze, she felt her heartbeat accelerating, when Alice took another step towards her and asked, “Miss Granger, if you don’t mind – what was Neville like then? It’s just that, well, he’s so humble, and we can’t hardly get anything out of him.”

Steadying herself, she closed the gap between them and took Alice’s hands in her own.

“Mrs. Longbottom, your son is among the very best of men. He is kind, intelligent, thoughtful, patient, and loyal. He is the best herbologist I’ve ever seen – ” She turned to Dolohov and admonished, “I’m surprised you don’t have him working here.”

“Trust me,” he replied, leaning on the back of the couch, “we’ve tried.”

She turned back to Alice and Frank who were grinning warmly at each other. 

“...and his bravery at the battle of Hogwarts is legendary. What he did with Nagini...and when we thought all was lost, it was Neville who rallied the troops, so to speak. Please know that he will have our undying respect for the rest of our lives.”

Alice squeezed her hands, while Frank wrapped his arm around her shoulders again.

“Thank you, my dear. We just…it’s just that getting the chance to get to know him now, despite all the lost years, is the greatest gift – and that all comes down to you, Mr. P.”

He nodded, pointing to Hermione. “I am discussing with Miss Granger the possibility of a similar procedure with her own parents, in an attempt to return their lost memories.” 

“How wonderful!” replied Frank. “Well trust me, Miss Granger, they’ll be in good hands.”

Dolohov continued, “My understanding is that the Longbottoms must leave to keep another appointment but, before they depart, is there anything you wish to ask them?”

Hermione looked from him to Neville’s parents, ultimately realizing that, yes, there was.

“I…sincerely apologize if this is an inconsiderate question. I was just wondering how complete the procedure was. Obviously, you’re both quite sentient and healthy, but specifically I was curious as to the memories, and how many of them you got back.”

Frank looked up at the cieling, chewing the inside of his jaw in thought. “I mean, strictly speaking, all of them. The St. Mungo’s years, you have to understand, are all a blur because it was pretty much the same unending routine. Hospital gowns, pudding cups, Benny Hill on the tele, and visits from this nice young boy we had no idea was our child. But everything from when we were, strictly speaking, sane? It’s all back.”

He glanced at Dolohov, chuckling. “You could have left out those last memories of Bellatrix and Barty, you know! You did _too_ good of a job in that regard.”

Alice shuddered, not saying a word. Hermione lightly touched her shoulder in a gesture of support, also noting that he had not mentioned Rabastan or Rudolphus.

“Sure was chuffed to hear _that_ harpy was dead,” Frank went on. “Good on Molly Weasley. If only they’d let her loose on the twat that killed her brothers.”

Hermione was unable to prevent the panicked look that came across her face. She glanced at Dolohov, who gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the head.

_They have not recognized me_ , it warned. _Let us keep it that way._

“Well,” Alice spoke up, “we should be getting on our way. Hannah got off from her work shift early to have dinner with us at the little safe house they’ve got us in, you know, and wants to talk to us about names for the baby – oh, boggarts! I wasn’t supposed to say anything. DO act surprised whenever Neville gets around to telling you, Hermione.”

“I will,” Hermione promised. It warmed her heart to know he was about to be a father.

In a few minutes, they had all exchanged “goodbyes” and “nice to meet yous”, just like it was a normal conversation (and not something that flouted all the boundaries of science and magic). When Hermione heard the door close again, she turned to Dolohov.

“Did you…” she whispered, nervously biting a stray hangnail.

“Did I what?” he responded, still leaning on the back of the couch.

“Did you alter the memories of what you looked like, so they wouldn’t recognize you?”

He chuckled, a bit ruefully, folding his arms. “That’s a good idea, _umnitsa_. I wish I could have. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. The spell brings back everything. I cannot pick and choose – otherwise even a depraved creature such as myself would have spared them the trauma of that torture. But they did not interact with me much at all, when they were in the order, so they don’t have an inkling. If it does ever come up…”

He held his hands up in the air in a cavalier gesture.

“Honestly, all things considered, I think they will forgive me.”

Battling a dozen emotions at once, she took a tentative step towards him.

“You…well, for a moment, if I forget who I am, and if I forget who you are, and if I’m just looking at this academically…the work you’ve done…it’s beyond magnificent.”

He bowed his head to her, smiling.

“I would like to do the same for you. I can do it. Let me help you, _krasavitsa.”_

“But…” she continued. “I _cannot_ forget who you are. And Thorfinn…he said some things to me at the party, about…well, when you cursed me and, afterward…”

Hermione *almost* thought that the dangerous, hulking death eater in front of her was turning slightly red. Rubbing his face with his hands, he mumbled, “Fucking _mudak_ …”

Corralling her courage, she took another step closer to him.

“I want…I want this for my parents. I will not pretend otherwise – I _cannot_. But I am also not so completely naive as to assume that this will not come with a price.”

“Wise, as usual,” he admired. 

He walked over to the end table where he’d laid his cocktail and picked up a scroll she hadn’t seen before, tied with a black cord. She tried _not_ to take note of how he looked as he sauntered away from her, of the way his shoulders moved underneath his shirt. 

She slunk backwards to pick up her wand from where it had rolled, all the way to the granite bar in the kitchen area. She returned it to the holster underneath her skirt while his back was still turned. Dolohov met her there, holding out the parchment.

“What is this?” she inquired, her outstretched hand trembling.

Picking her up as if she were no bigger than a doll and placing her on one of the barstools, he opened up the parchment for her – pulling the string with his teeth.

“Dolohov, please…what would you have me do?” 

She was afraid, and…something else.

He leaned down toward her again, placing the document in her lap. 

His eyes peeled her down to the bone. 

“I would have you scream my given name in the dark of evening,” he rasped. “I would have you come apart underneath me. I would have you want for nothing.”

She could not, despite the best of intentions, repress the chill that wracked her bones.

“ _I would have you belong to me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Tomorrow's chapter is something that most of you seem to like: Antonin POV. In addition, you will learn more about the contract he has just dropped, literally, in her lap, and there will be...some *spice.*
> 
> • I don't know if sharing this will come off as weird, or what, but I feel like I need to give credit where credit is due. This is a Youtube video which compiles clips of Michiel Huisman from various photoshoots and one movie I don't recognize. I did use the beginning of this video as reference for some of Antonin's facial expressions that occur from here on out, if that helps anyone.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHpLkWh9THg
> 
> (Also, uhh, if you have a soft spot for Mickey Hweezy, this may in fact bring on a fainting spell.)
> 
> • I was RIGHT PROPER CHUFFED by the reactions to the last chapter. I have the nicest, most thoughtful commenters in the world. ((insert multiple sunshine emojis)) You bring more joy into my life than I could ever articulate. Therefore, since today is Valentine's day, I wanted to spread love to you by giving you an extra chapter this afternoon, which is why you got two in one day. Blessings to all of you, and thank YOU for blessing ME with your wonderful encouragement.
> 
> (For anyone annoyed by the multiple notifications, I apologize!)


	13. "Do Not Deny Me Your Joy"

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“This is…a ‘solstice contract’?” Hermione queried. 

Sitting on the stool next to her, finishing his cocktail, he nodded.

“It takes effect, if I accept, tomorrow, the twenty-first of December – that’s why you said, in your letter, that what you had to discuss with me was time-sensitive, I suppose.”

“ _Da_ ,” he said. He could listen to this interrogation all evening. The more questions she had, the longer she’d be here, next to him, bringing the space around her to life. 

“Would you like another one of these, by the way?” He pointed at the empty glass.

“No, thank you,” she said, still reading through the elegant script. “This is the sort of decision for which one should be unclouded, and, as you’ve seen, I’m a bit of a lightweight. The contract would end on June 20th? Solstice to solstice, six months?”

“Indeed,” he replied. He looked back to check on Mishka, who was dozing on his bed, having contorted her body into one of the requisite bizarre samoyed sleeping poses.

“I’ve never heard of this,” he heard Hermione mumble. 

He could tell that this fact flustered his witch, that there was something she hadn’t known. Again, he wanted to tease her, to engender even more of this adorable bemusement, but he had to restrain himself as best he could for the time being.

“It’s…an older custom,” he replied, leaning his head on his hand. “I guess you could think of it as ‘Unbreakable Vow Lite,’ just meant for a limited period of time. Narcissa will know all about it – I’m going to assume you’ll tell her everything, anyway.”

She squished her lips together in a humorous expression meant to express pique. Her initial fear had been worn down, once again, by her enormous curiosity, and now she studied the contract as diligently as he imagined she would have studied ancient runes.

“There’s a clause in here that states, ‘ _You will not reveal my true identity to anyone who does not already know it_.’ Based on your snarky comment, I am guessing Narcissa is one of the people who does know – which, by the way, does explain her odd reaction to me coming here this evening. Who else knows, aside from her, and from me?”

He considered for a moment. “Thorfinn, of course, and Lucius…and I honestly don’t know if Rabastan recognized me or not. I don’t think he did. And my grandmother – ”

“What about Goyle, and Pansy?” she interrupted. He wondered if he was registering suspicion in her lovely voice when she spoke the woman’s name. 

“Neither of them have recognized me,” he said. “I had no dealings with them before.”

She processed that information, cocking her head to the side, then continued, “and there’s an _additional_ addendum which states that, if I do agree to come back tomorrow and sign the contract, I will immediately be administered a dose of veritaserum!”

“Only once,” he stipulated. “Never again after that. I want to start this arrangement of ours, if you choose to accept it, with complete and utter honesty from you.” 

“Do you think I would lie to you?” she huffed, precious in her vexation.

“I think you might lie to yourself,” he responded. It was taking every fragile mote of self-control that he possessed not to annihilate those pouting lips of hers again.

“Dolohov,” she said, shaking her head and putting the contract on the countertop. “This contract guarantees, one hundred percent, the restoration of my parents’ memories, but it is asking me to ‘ _belong_ ’ to you, for six months – to be _yours_ , and I’m concerned by the lack of detail there. Essentially, you want me to be your mistress?”

He could tell that she was trying to act offended – and perhaps she was – but she was also interested, in spite of herself. Her body language belied her haughty tone.

“I’ve spoken this language for many years now, although it is not my first,” Antonin said, choosing his words with caution. “My understanding of that term, ‘mistress,’ is that it implies an extra marital affair of some kind – and I am not married. So ‘mistress’ is not quite right. But yes, for six months, you will be mine, and _mine alone_.”

He gripped the countertop then, gritting his teeth, unnoticed by her. 

He desired her so badly that it made him want to shatter something.

“But…you must understand how…absolutely bonkers this proposition is, Dolohov.”

“Why?” he asked. “Is it that you are already spoken for, and I was not aware?”

“Well,” she said, “No. I am…not,” looking up into his eyes, a little timidly.

_How convenient_ , he thought, _that no one will have to meet with an unfortunate accident._

“But…how can I submit myself to you, for this period of time, knowing who you are?”

“My crimson lady,” he said with a laugh, sliding off the stool to stand closer to her. “You wound me. You have been such an agent of…reconciliation, testifying at all these trials, extending mercy to so many of my brethren. Why so hard-hearted with me?”

Her facial expression practically screamed, _Are you kidding?_

“None of those brethren I forgave attempted to kill me, Dolohov!!!”

He shrugged.

“Like I said. We all make mistakes.”

He reached out to take her hand, which felt like it was made to fit perfectly in his.

“And I was the one who was vanquished…Hermione.”

He felt her shiver as she bit her lip and looked up at the cieling, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “I…I can’t even…I can’t comprehend all of this right now.”

“I understand, perfectly. You have a day – take it. Go home,” he managed to grind out of himself, even though his entire soul was screaming, _my witch, my dorogaya, stay, stay, stay with me, always_. “And think about it. I simply ask that you come back in person tomorrow, at the same time as today, to bring me your answer.”

She was deeply conflicted – it was written in every gesture, every cell of her skin. But she had not yet left the stool, or removed her hand from his. 

“I will,” she said, brusquely.

“There’s a hidden ‘but’ dangling there,” he noted, smirking. One day, he wanted to know every little thought that lit up in that substantive brain of hers. 

In the mean time, he walked over to his bedroom door to close it. Mishka did not need to witness the snogging he hoped might be happening during the next few minutes. 

As he strolled back towards Hermione – _fuck, I will never look at that barstool again without imagining her perched on it, he thought_ – she spoke in uncertain syllables.

“Look, Dolohov…what you’ve been accomplishing with MediMagic,” she began. “It’s phenomenal. What you did for the Longbottoms, and what you did for Draco…”

“I did it for you,” he cut her off, striding back into her space.

Her eyes snapped back down to his, wide as remembrance poppies.

“I do, obviously, want to undo whatever damage we did back then – whatever I can. That is part of why I built this,” he clarified, gesturing to the building around him. 

“But it wasn’t _for_ them.”

He closed the gap between them then – he could no longer stop himself – enveloping her in his arms, each tendon and ligament within his limbs crying out for his witch.

“It was for you, _krasavitsa.”_

Her lip trembled as she lifted her head to gaze at him, and he touched his nose to hers.

“It’s all been for you.”

And because he could not have borne it if she uttered one more objection – one more awful, logical reason why she should not sign the paper – he leaned in and kissed her.

He relished the feeling of her melting resilience, her own arms, finally, wrapping around his midsection as, again, she moaned into his mouth, seemingly both in surprise and in untrammeled lust – _so responsive, witch of mine_. As he pressed closer, holding her face in both of his hands as he deepened the kiss, his whole body was lit aflame. He could fall into this abyss forever and miss nothing about the rest of his life. It was hard to believe that, after all the frigid years of waiting, this was, in truth, her mouth, her tongue – her cheekbones underneath his fingers, her moans echoing through his head.

He had told himself, _I will kiss her goodbye. That is all._

He knew now that it would not be all.

She was panting as he released her lips and tongue to assault her ear, then her neck, which was blooming in spots of red now, like roses on the garden of her sweet flesh. 

“D – Doloh – ” she mewled, he eyes closed, her hands pressing into his back.

“Shhh, _L’venok_ ,” he whispered, stretching the fabric on her sweater to expose the mark he’d left on her skin when they were in the corridor outside the party, still barely there. 

“Resplendent,” he declared, kissing it gently. “Do you know that? How perfect you are?”

“Dolohov I…I can’t think straight when you…” 

She had difficulty breathing as he lightly bit her neck, eyes gazing upward like a martyr. Yes, she might as well be, for all the marvelous ways he planned on demolishing her. 

He would wait to take her until after she signed the contract, until she was fully is. 

But there were other ways to demolish.

Her eyes widened again as he kneeled on the ground before her, parting her legs on the barstool and looking up at her with a blend of desire, adoration, and menace.

The death eater, long stifled, was still there, deep down. 

For all of his outward reform and good deeds, Antonin Dolohov was still, in some ways, the little boy who would once spend hours building enormous, complex constructions out of hand-hewn wooden blocks, only to delight in tearing them all down. Gazing up at his goddess, he wanted, desperately, to see her fall apart – just like that.

“You don’t – you don’t have to – do that – ”

“Do not fear. I will not take you, Miss Granger – not today,” he said, running his fingers up her glorious thighs, feeling her wriggle in response. “I will not even remove a single piece of clothing from your body, save one, as much as the only thing that I want in this moment is to leave all of this fabric in shreds on my floor and fuck you into next year.”

He felt her shudder underneath his hands, watched her splendid breasts heave as her breathing grew faster with his words. Her hands moved up to grip his hair. At that sensation, he had to remind himself, very forcefully, that he was _not_ fucking her.

“But…” he continued, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to control his own breathing, “please allow me leave you with a gift. A token of my goodwill. _Evanesco_.”

Her knickers vanished into thin air as he lifted up her skirt. Her gasp was a symphony as he touched his tongue to her sweet, molten core, and her fingers curled tight on his scalp as her back arched and her hair flew backwards in a golden brown cascade.

Yaxley had said once, “All pussy’s the same, really. The wrappings on the outside are different colors or shapes, but once you get past that, the inside’s no different.”

Antonin missed his friend, who had died fighting beside him at the battle of Hogwarts.

But as he plunged into her heat, over and over, hearing her glorious cries echo off the walls of his apartment, he knew that Yaxley could not have been more wrong. This pussy was not the same; he’d had enough to know. This one was different. And this was the only pussy Antonin wanted to taste for the rest of his goddamn life.

Exploring her metallic musk with his tongue, mercilessly, her wild exhalations driving him on, he moved lower from her clitoris and tasted how wet she was for him.

_…blyat._

His cock was now straining, almost painfully, against his pants, begging to plumb the depths of paradise that his mouth was now traversing. He could have lingered in her wetness all day, but he had other “nefarious plans.” Lucius had been right, after all.

He stood then, wrapping one arm around her back. She would need to be held for what was coming next. She opened her eyes, holding his face in her hands.

“The…” she panted. “The _evanesco_. You did it…wandlessly.”

_Always the academic, even in the throes of ecstasy_ , he thought with a smile.

He leaned in to nibble her ear and whispered, “Let me show you what else can be accomplished with my hands alone, _krasavitsa.”_

She inhaled a ragged breath, gripping his shoulders as he plunged his middle finger inside of her, arcing it up slightly in search of the spot that would dismantle her.

“ _Ahhhh_!” she moaned, loud, lascivious, and utterly spectacular. She still did not know – might never know – that those sounds did to him. He summoned every atom of restraint not to pull her whole body on to the cold tile floor and rail her until she knew nothing but his name. In the back of his mind he started to wonder, as he thrust his finger in and out of her, just at the edge of brutality, who was demolishing who.

Her breathing, even quicker now, was at odds with her face – eyes shut tight, lips pursed, head shaking. The little witch was trying not to cum, he realized with a jolt.

“Let go, Hermione. My Hermione,” he whispered, kissing a path down her neck, his own breathing growing labored. It felt too good, being inside of her, even just this small part of him. He wanted, _needed_ her to feel good, too. He would be nothing without it.

“No!” she shrieked. “I will – NOT give you – the satisfaction! I’m still – bloody mad at you!!!”

But her back was arching again, leaning into his strong arm, and the rosy flush had reached her face. Her panting and mewling was bringing out the worst in him.

He leaned down close to her, brows furrowed, and hissed, “ _Do not deny me your joy_.”

“FUCK!” she screamed, writhing in abandon, evidently affected by the change in tone.

_Interesting._

_That has…potential_ , he thought, planting a soft kiss on her cheek as she whined incomprehensibly, his gentle mouth at odds with his wicked hand.

Increasing the rhythm of his fingers to a fever pitch that he hoped would push her over the precipice of her own stubbornness, he whispered in her ear, in between vicious little bites of the lobe, “I can’t wait until it’s my cock that’s doing this to you, _L’venok_ – 

“Mmmm, Dolo – DOLOHOV, you WRETCH – ”

Still supporting her with the bulk of his arm, he reached up his hand to pull her hair as he growled, “…to make you mine, to make you take my seed like a good little girl – ”

“BLOODY FUCKING WRACKSPURTS!” she wailed, and he could feel it on his hand, suddenly, the pulsing around his finger, the divine flood, and her own fingernails digging into the flesh at the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been closer to the full potential of himself, to his own _telos_ , then in that moment, holding up her twitching body as every last bastion of her opposition to him came crumbling down.

Antonin had to take a moment then to close his eyes, withdrawing his hand from her welcoming warmth, to count to twenty, to think of icicles, frigid winter waterfalls, Siberian snow drifts that once came up to his stomach – anything to neutralize the incendiary desire that was smoldering through every vein and capillary, and –

His meditation was interrupted by two fierce, quick hands unbuttoning his shirt. 

As close as he was to losing himself, that alone was almost enough to wreck him.

Opening his eyes, he grabbed both of her wrists and held them aloft, summoning all of his old danger into his eyes to make her stop. She had to stop, or he could not.

“Hermione,” he whispered. She looked at him, shocked – possibly as much by her own ferocity as by the severity by which he was preventing it. “I…I will not…I want you to be _sure_. Before we go any farther. Please, _umolyayu vas_ – it is taking everything I have.”

He had to leave her then, he realized, as much as he never wanted to leave her again – he had to remove himself, right that very minute, or he would possess no restraint. 

Antonin took a few steps back towards his bedroom door, his shirt gaping open, taking in her confused expression and hoping this wasn’t the last time he would see it. 

“Thorfinn is still outside the door. He will see you safely back down to the street. Please… _krasavitsa_ , forgive my rudeness,” he said, gesturing to the contract on the bar, “and think over my proposal. I look forward to seeing you here tomorrow, at six,” he uttered, taking a slight bow and, before his savagery could convince him to finish what he’d started with her, stepping into his bedroom and closing the door behind him.

Leaning against the door and breathing heavily, he thought he heard her mumble a spell – _cleaning? or making a copy of the contract?_ – before he heard the sound of boots clacking across the tile and the closing of the outer door. He remembered that his witch, thanks to him, would be walking all the way out of the building with no panties.

Mishka, her nap yet again disturbed, regarded him drowsily from the mattress with a cocked head, her little white ears perked up, before surrendering to sleep again. 

He balled his left hand into a fist in sheer frustration, moving the right hand to lightly touch his still erect, demanding cock through the fabric of his trousers.

He thought, for some reason, of his grandmother’s icon then, of the byzantine cross that hung around her neck, and all of her ardent prayers.

_You bastard_ , he thought. _If you even exist. I’ve never asked for anything of you, but this._

_Bring her back to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: umolyayu vas = "I beg you!"; dorogaya = okay, this one is a little confusing to me as well, so iaine_mac might have some insight again. When you translate it literally, it says "expensive," but it seems to be more used in the way we would use "darling" or "sweetheart". From what I can gather, then, it means someone you love who is worth a lot to you – someone priceless.
> 
> • Will Hermione decide to sign the solstice contract? What will the other people in her life think about it? How will she react to Thorfinn now that she knows what he's been hiding? Will Lucius have an aneurysm? ALL OF THIS AND MORE will be revealed in UPCOMING CHAPTERS of *The Otter and the Bear!*


	14. "He's My Sort of Problem"

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Hermione was having some difficulty walking.

She usually spent at least a few minutes post-orgasm laying down, cuddling, or sleeping, but Antonin Dolohov had all but kicked her out of his apartment – despite the fact that _she_ had wholly given in to _him_ , damn her – in, paradoxically, what appeared to be a bizarre attempt at chivalry. That development was almost as confusing to her as everything else that had elapsed within those walls over the last couple of hours.

She had so much to think about right now, and no idea of exactly where to start.

She wanted to fix her parents, first and foremost. She wanted to take that contract and rip it up into tiny shreds. She wanted to run to her shitty apartment and never come back. She wanted to turn right around and bang her fists on his bedroom door until he opened it and made her completely his own. She wanted to forget who he was, to forget who she was. She wanted to say no to him on principle, to remind him of all the evil he’d done, and stand firm in the face of his rage. She wanted him to do every little thing he’d threatened to do, when he brought her to nirvana on his hand despite her every headstrong attempt to deny him. She wanted his lips on hers again. 

She wanted the rest of him.

She wanted to keep her Gryffindor pride. But she also wanted to sign that fucking piece of paper, for reasons that had to do with her family, and for reasons that did not.

Opening the door, she was presented with the sight of Thorfinn, reading paperwork, and still sitting on the little stool in the hallway where she’d last seen him; there was an odd humor to seeing a man so large perched on a seat so small. His tie had been fully removed, and he looked up at her with a wave, trying too hard to look innocent.

An arrow of recollection pierced her then – Luna’s prescient warning at the party.

_“He’s keeping something from you.”_

And in that instant, she knew something else.

“You absolute wanker,” she said, putting her hands on her hips.

“…what?” he said, attempting to sound casual, and not succeeding.

“You were out here this whole time to obliviate me in case I panicked and tried to run.”

He bared his teeth in a grimace, a goofy, overexaggerated parody of a smile.

“Well…” he said, standing up and putting the paperwork under one arm. “I mean…it’s not like you haven’t done it to me before?” he countered, weakly.

“ _Bloody rapscallion!_ ” she shrieked, whipping out her wand from underneath her skirt and chasing him down the hallway like a valkyrie with a series of very mild stinging hexes – much more mild than he deserved, by her reckoning.

“Ow! Ouch! Fuck! Balls! Arse! Cunt! _Damnit_ , Princess!” he yelped in rapid succession as they both ran down the hall to the elevator. He held it open for her, rubbing his sore arms and doing his absolute best to look pitiful. She knew better.

“I cannot BELIEVE you,” she said, stepping on to the elevator and flipping her hair.

“I mean, I knew you _weren’t_ going to panic,” he stated, joining her and pushing the button for the ground floor, “so it was really an unnecessary precaution.”

“Well at least I know why you were a bit evasive with Draco’s questions about your boss at the party now,” she mumbled, turning to him as they started to descend. “How long have you two been getting ready to run this con on me, Thorfinn?”

She wasn’t really angry anymore – all of the indignance had been siphoned off by the fingers and tongue of the man upstairs – but was more genuinely curious.

“It’s not like that, Princess,” he said, rolling his eyes and sighing. “Although I know it must appear that way, I suppose. Look…you’re both my best friends. I don’t know what to tell you. I want you _both_ to be happy. If I ever thought he’d hurt you in a million years, I wouldn’t have helped him in any capacity. But, for what it’s worth – ”

“Oh boy, here we go,” she muttered. “Advice from Dr. Rowle.”

“ – his obsession with you aside, I’ve thought for a long time now that you would make a bloody brilliant couple. There’s plenty of men who would want you, Hermione. I speak from experience there,” he said, winking at her, as the elevator reached the bottom.

He offered his arm to her, in what she thought was a premature attempt at a truce, but as she found it impossible to remain irritated at him she took it and let him lead her through the lobby. Everyone had gone home now except a few security officers.

“But, honestly,” he continued, “Intellectually? That man you just spoke to is the only living wizard who I feel like is your match, and you’re the only witch who I feel is his.”

“There is, of course, the whole murder attempt,” she whispered.

“True, but you have no idea the lengths he’s gone to in order to make that up to you.”

He nodded at Goyle as they passed. She felt a twinge of pity for Gregory, knowing the tongue-lashing he would likely get from his boss tomorrow.

“And, look, worst case scenario…sign the contract, deal with it for six months, dump him at the end of it, and you get your parents back, regardless. Isn’t it worth that?”

She sighed. She couldn’t deny that she saw the logic in it.

“I just,” she objected, as they went through the revolving doors and made it out on to the street, “I don’t want to be his fifth girlfriend or…whatever, like that one American billionaire. I’m sure Dolo – ” she looked around the street. “I’m sure Putorana has a different woman installed in every major city by this point, with all his money.”

Thorfinn laughed so hard that he had to lean on his own knees.

“Princess, oh, wow. Thank you for that. I don’t think you understand how single-mindedly he’s been focused on impressing _you_ since he made this new life. Now, back in the day, in the…” He changed his voice to a soft whisper as they walked down the street. “In the Death Eater times? He pulled mad birds, I won’t lie to you. But over the last couple of years? It’s just been him and Palmela Handerson. There’s no one else.”

“Palm-el-a Hand-er-son,” she said, confused, sounding it out. It took her longer than it should have. “Ew! THORFINN!” she squealed, lightly slapping his shoulder.

“What???” he caterwauled. She couldn’t help but laugh at him. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed her shoulders, looking down at her in earnest.

“I gave you my two cents, and that’s the last I’ll say on it. Bottom line: whatever you decide to do tomorrow – whether you sign or don’t sign – I’m still your ride or die.”

Hermione surrendered to the hug he gave her then, for all Diagon Alley to see, rubbing his back and sighing. It really _was_ awfully difficult to stay vexed at him.

“You know I’m terrible on a broom,” she muttered.

“It’s a motorcycle metaphor, pet.”

“Oh,” she said, lamely. “It’s been a long day.”

“Oh trust me, I know,” he chuckled, releasing her, looking down with a smirk.

“What…do you mean by that?” she asked, with dawning, abject horror.

“ _FUCK! Mmm, DOLOHOV, you WRETCH! BLOODY FUCKING WRACKSPURTS!_ ” he shrieked, slinging about his hands theatrically and doing his best impression of her voice. 

“Thorfinn, you unbridled _degenerate!!!_ ” she yelled, shoving his muscled chest, stomping down the street away from him as she heard his peals of laughter behind her.

“See?” he shouted after her. “He’s not ALL bad, is he, love?”

<> <> <> <> <>

“So, let me get this straight,” said Millicent at the cheap folding table next to their kitchen bar, looming over her “Niffler-O’s!” Cereal as Hermione cooked eggs for the two of them. 

“Some chap at MediMagic wants to fix your parents’ memories, just like they fixed the Longbottoms. But you have to sign a solstice contract to be his girl for six months.”

“That…just about sums it up. You like over medium, right Mills?” she asked as Millicent nodded, holding up her plate, the silver wrist of her magical hand glinting out from under her black sleeve, for Hermione’s spatula to deposit the egg on it. Hermione had chosen a special set of antique plates this morning – ones that usually gave her comfort, but that, this morning, seemed to only add to her consternation.

She, despite not having signed it yet, was keeping her end of the contract – she wasn’t going to tell anyone aside from Narcissa who Putorana actually _was_. But the rest of the situation seemed like fair game, and she was curious for Millicent’s famously direct input.

“You know you could just use magic for that,” Millicent said, gesturing to the sizzling pan.

“Ehhh,” Hermione replied, waving the spatula in a dismissing motion. Sometimes cooking the old fashioned way, even minor items liked eggs, helped her to clear her head.

“Is the bloke fit?” Millicent asked, before shoveling several consecutive bites into her mouth. Millicent ate with the vigour of a Knight Templar attacking an infidel; the cereal and protein would likely both be decimated in a matter of minutes. 

Hermione put her own eggs onto a plate and sat down across from her. This was probably one of the more honest conversations she’d ever had with her roommate. Maybe it was a good sign for their rapport – that she felt able to open up about it.

“In short, yes,” she confessed, with a sigh, remembering how his fingers felt inside her, how his eyes had bored into her as he’d commanded, _“Do not deny me your joy.”_

She shook herself a little in an effort to refocus.

“He’s…he’s my sort of problem.”

Millicent just shook her head as she chewed, finally uttering, “Seems a bit dodgy, Mines.”

“It’s…more than a bit dodgy,” she agreed, piercing the egg with her fork.

“And he works in the lab there?”

“Well…” she said, after chewing a bit. She decided to add some of Gabi’s green chile, which was already on the table. “Actually, he’s the founder and CEO of the company.”

Millicent’s fork stopped in midair as she stared Hermione down.

“Putorana???” she yelled, incredulous.

Hermione, remembering the old Millicent who’d toppled people like bowling pins and generally been a terror, leaned backwards in her folding chair in an attempt at retreat.

“…yes?”

Millicent’s face looked like it was made of granite. For a good ten seconds, Hermione had no idea what the other woman was thinking; she simply sat, blinking, and stared back at her, occasionally placing a bite of chile-dusted egg into her mouth.

“Mines,” she grumbled, wiping her face with a paper towel. “That guy’s bad news.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. Millicent was right, even though she might not be aware of exactly _why_ she was right.

“Look,” she stated, standing to take her dishes over to the rack in the sink. “I know you want your mum and dad back – anyone would. But this would be a deal with the devil. There are…” She leaned on the counter, tilting her head back and forth, trying to find words. “There are rumors. I know you think what he’s done is impressive – ”

“It IS impressive,” Hermione interjected, ignoring how she already felt defensive of him.

“ – but nobody knows who this bloke was before. He just shows up out of nowhere two years ago and starts making all these discoveries?” She glanced up at the cuckoo clock, which she’d charmed to tweedle snippets of Black Sabbath and Motorhead. “Bollocks – sorry to cut this off short. I just realized I’m late for work. Fucking goblins are going to have my bloody head mounted on the lobby wall one of these days.”

Millicent, shaking her head, took a few long strides to the door and grabbed her uniform jacket from the coat rack. Hermione swiveled in her chair to face her.

“Mines, despite how I was such a cunt to you back in the day – ”

It was the first time she’d acknowledged it in those terms.

“ – I know that, deep down, you’re a good woman. Don’t get mixed up with people like…” She paused before his name. “…Putorana, whatever carrot he might be holding.”

She nodded, in the way of punctuation, before walking out the door and shutting it behind her. Hermione sighed again and turned around to finish her breakfast. 

_Well, that was certainly direct._

She knew that, strictly speaking, nothing her roommate had just said to her was wrong.

Although she did not know the circumstances, she knew Dolohov had killed the Prewetts, the brothers of Molly Weasley. It was thought that he killed Lupin, so beloved by her, and possibly Tonks, though it was never confirmed. He may have finished off Carrow, and there were probably also others she didn’t know about.

She tried, in her mind, to reconcile all of that depravity with the feel of his warm breath on the back of her neck as he’d rescued her from falling; the facial expression of a lost puppy when she’d been crying; the scent of white birch trees as he’d held her close and whispered, “By the way, it means ‘beautiful”; the meticulous, loving ministrations of his tongue below her pleated skirt; the sound of his deep voice saying, “It’s all been for you.”

She could not.

She had no idea what was the correct course, in regard to Antonin Dolohov. 

She knew what she _wanted_. On that front, she possessed not a single doubt.

She also knew that what she wanted was not wise.

But beneath the remains of the fried eggs lied a sweet little china plate in the pattern of Scottish thistle, part of a small tea set that had been sent with her to Hogwarts.

It had been a gift, from her parents. 

Did they have tea in Australia, she wondered? Were they happy, while childless? It was summertime now, for them. Did they sometimes look up at the moon and feel a distant echo of something they missed, but could not put their fingers on? 

And could she live with herself indefinitely if, given the option to restore the entire narrative of their lives to them, she chose not to do it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Hermione yelling "Bloody rapscallion!" at Thorfinn and chasing him down the hallway is one hundred percent a reference to this Boris Johnson meme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEWAiQZsT8Q
> 
> • The American billionaire she references is Ted Turner, who at one point about ten years ago did have four girlfriends who he spent a week each month with. There was a minor and honestly kind of hilarious scandal when a Pulitzer Prize-winning author (Robert Olen Butler) sent his grad students, for some reason, an email explaining that his wife was leaving him to be one of Turner's four girlfriends, and then one of the students leaked the email to a gossip website that no longer exists.
> 
> • Tomorrow's chapter sees Hermione back at the hospital for a bit and then, from Dolohov's POV, making her way back to the top floor of the MediMagic building to give her answer.
> 
> • There will be no more two-updates-in-one-day from this point out – that was just a special Valentine's surprise, and I want to keep the decent lead I have between writing and actual posting – but I'm really happy that you seemed to enjoy the double-drop. I should, for the foreseeable future, be able to stick to the daily chapter updates, and if something happens that prevents me from doing so I will communicate from you in the notes and give you new estimates for when to expect them. (I *do* have a bunch of research papers that will be coming in during the next couple of weeks, so that could gum up the works a little bit.) I just don't want you to think this will be one of those stories that stops updating indefinitely.


	15. "I Will Find a Way or Make One"

<> <> <> <> <>

“Well,” whispered Narcissa, looking over the copy of the contract that Hermione had handed her, “this…is very much Antonin. All or nothing,” she said, with a sad smile.

Hermione, as promised, had come by after breakfast to sit with the Malfoys in the room at St. Mungo’s. She and Narcissa were sitting on the rickety chairs while both Malfoy males were taking afternoon naps – Draco just for the hell of it, since he was almost fully healed – and Hermione had pounced on the opportunity to have a “just the girls” chat with Narcissa, which was punctuated by the occasional snore from Lucius. 

“Am I, in essence, whoring myself out to get my parents back?” Hermione asked.

“I…cannot speak to his exact intentions,” Narcissa ventured, quietly. Their entire conversation was not above a whisper, for fear of waking the men. “But this is a very old-fashioned contract. It was never done as much in England, but was something that pureblood European families would sometimes enact – something one would sign before a marriage, to test if both parties were truly right for one another. Although out of style now, it has a long history and is actually _extremely_ expensive to draw up; if I remember correctly, there is only this one firm, in Geneva, that’s been preparing them for centuries. In essence, Poppet, this is not something you would give to a…whore.”

Hermione noted with affectionate amusement that her sophisticated godmother had been forced to pause before saying such an uncouth word.

“You could have just told me, you know – that Putorana was Dolohov,” she teased. 

Narcissa handed Hermione back the parchment, who rolled it up and put it into her decrepit beaded drawstring bag, before sighing and folding her hands.

“I had no idea _what_ to do, Hermione, in truth. Lucius was fit to be tied when he realized I had invited Antonin to the masquerade – we all go back a long way, even past Tom – because he said that Antonin had ‘long harboured a fixation’ on you.”

“Thorfinn had said something similar,” she agreed, “and Rabastan seemed to confirm it. But I don’t really…I don’t understand the nature of that fixation, exactly.”

Hermione had already begun to wonder if, like most men in her life, Dolohov’s interest in her would be short lived – if she represented some kind of conquest to him but that, once won, she would lose whatever strange allure she had in his eyes. (In matters of romance, she’d found that preparing herself for the worst was a sound policy.)

“I _do_ understand now why you seemed so hesitant about my meeting with him, though.”

Narcissa nodded, conceding, “Lucius was afraid that, if we warned you away from him directly, it would inspire the opposite reaction in you and be, ultimately, pointless.”

Hermione thought about her morning talk with Millicent and couldn’t help but concur.

“Have you…decided whether you will sign it or not?” Narcissa asked.

“Not yet, I don’t think, although I’ll need to make up my mind within the next several hours,” she said, looking up at the clock. She was planning to go home and change before heading back to the MediMagic building, and she thought she had just the right dress in mind. “Are you…going to tell Lucius about the contract?” she inquired.

Narcissa glanced at her husband, still dozing with the occasional leg twitch. His head was bandaged, and Draco, before his nap, had carefully done his father’s long platinum hair in two lovely braids. She hated that she would not be there to see his reaction.

“I will wait until after you are gone, once we are discharged and safely ensconced at home, which, from what Hannah said, should be in a couple of hours.” She pursed her lips, searching for the right words. “When you went yesterday…did he hurt you?”

“No,” said Hermione, emphatically. “No, not at all. In fact he was…”

She blinked a few times rapidly, knowing full well the color that came into her cheeks.

Narcissa stifled a giggle. “Indeed.”

“Who’s hurting my sister?” Draco piped up from the bed, his eyes now open. She wondered how long he had been listening, the little sneak, but couldn’t help grinning.

“No one, Draco – not with someone like you to protect me,” she declared, reaching to the bed to squeeze his foot under the covers.

“Damn right,” he said, sitting up in the bed and rearranging his pillows. “I fought off the man in black smoke. I mean, I couldn’t bloody see who it was behind all that magic, but…he dared to come in my house, cut me up? I showed him.”

“Oh you did, did you?” asked Narcissa, smirking at Hermione.

“He was bloody well gone by the time you got home, wasn’t he?”

“That’s true, my darling,” said Narcissa diplomatically.

“Was…did it turn out that anything had been taken?” Hermione asked.

Narcissa shook her head, looking down at the white tiles in consternation. “It was the strangest thing. My boudoir had been wrecked – wardrobe doors thrown wide, drawers ripped out, clothes and makeup and jewelry scattered everywhere. But nothing was actually removed. So they were _looking_ for something…”

“…but didn’t seem to find it,” Hermione finished. “Was anything else disturbed?”

Narcissa and Draco looked at each other with unease.

“There was…” Narcissa shuddered. 

Draco, picking up the thought to spare his mother the recounting of it, explained, “He, whoever it was, had the audacity to take MY BLOOD after I’d, erm…”

“Passed out?” Hermione offered.

“Collapsed in glorious battle,” he corrected, “and scrawled a message on the wall next to the staircase. It was written in Latin – I don’t know the exact translation – but Harry said the words were… _fiat iustitia et pereat mundus_ , if I remember right.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, with a shiver, reaching over to squeeze Narcissa’s hand. 

She didn’t say it out loud, but she recognized the meaning of the phrase as, “Let justice be done, though the world perish.” 

Millicent had been right. This was not an ordinary burglar. 

This _was_ a crime of rage.

“I just think it’s a head-scratcher that whoever it was that did this to us utilized both unsupported flight *and* _sectumsempra_ ,” Draco went on. “I can’t figure that one out. Thorfinn told Harry that the only two to use that first spell were Snape and Riddle, and we all know where _sectumsempra_ came from.” He squinted at Hermione, touching his chin. “Not to be indelicate, Granger, but are you sure you watched him die?”

She was about to answer in the affirmative – she would never, in fact, _forget_ watching that man die, as long as she lived – when Narcissa stood to rebuke him.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!” she hissed. 

Draco pulled his lips downward in an expression that seemed to acknowledge a fuckup.

Even in a whisper, his mother could be formidable. It was a completely different type of irritation than Hermione had seen from Molly Weasley so many times. Since Narcissa rarely ever got ruffled, her anger, when provoked, was much more effective. 

“Draco, even if Severus was somehow alive, that man was your _godfather_.” She folded her arms and stalked over to her son in rampant disapproval. “He died for you, Draco. He took the Unbreakable Vow, to protect you. He _knew_ he wasn’t the true master of the elder wand, and he hid that knowledge, for you.” Narcissa took a ragged breath, reaching out to take her son’s hand in her own. 

“Never forget that, Draco.”

“Mum…” he said, looking frantically at Hermione and then back at his mother. But Narcissa didn’t let him flounder long, leaning down to envelop him in a warm, loving hug.

“You must understand – I will always honor Severus because he protected what was most important to me,” she said. “And I can’t believe I almost just lost you again, my darling son. You will _never_ know how dear you are to me,” she breathed. 

Draco simply closed his eyes and hugged her back. “I’m here, mum. I’m still here.”

And it was in that precise instant that Hermione knew, as much as she knew her blood type or her eye color, that she would be signing Dolohov’s contract that evening. Seeing the two of them, mother and son, together in that embrace – watching them support each other in that cold, tiny hospital room, their faces nestled into one another – cemented in her mind how much she missed her own mother and father, who had lovingly packed her Hogwarts luggage, shipping off their precious girl to a world they didn’t understand and could never witness; taken her with them to the dental office, letting her play cat’s in the cradle with the floss; tucked her in every night and read Dickens to her; tended to her illnesses, her brattiness, her cruel, childish ingratitude; and _loved_ her, as well as any Englishman and Englishwoman could love their little girl, who had come to them late after many fruitless years of trying. She missed them, every day, just as much as the day she’d held up her wand behind their skulls and said, “ _obliviate.”_

And even if she wasn’t signing her body away to a charasmatic, enticing wizard who she was already falling head over heels for, anyway, despite it being all kinds of wrong – 

Even if the wizard had been Mundungus Fletcher himself –

She would still do it.

She owed them this, and so much more.

<> <> <> <> <>

It was fifteen minutes until six o’clock on the twenty-first of December, and Antonin Dolohov – the onetime chief lieutenant of Voldemort, the perfecter of ironclad wards, morbid elixirs, and pernicious curses, and the _Daily Prophet’s_ “New Rasputin” – was pacing back and forth across the dark tile of his living room, inhaling deep, shuddering breaths in between taking sips from his pocket flask, reduced to simply waiting on a girl.

He had portkeyed Mishka to his _babushka’_ s cabin (she did not mind in the least, as she always coveted time with her _Pravnuchka_ ), although he’d lied about the reason – simply saying he was on a business trip for the weekend. He didn’t exactly feel like explaining to his ninety-seven year-old grandmother that he needed his familiar out of the way this evening because he was attempting to manipulate the love of his life into signing a solstice contract and, if he succeeded, also dosing her with veritaserum. 

Among other activities.

Hopefully.

He’d put on a classic black suit and silk black tie this time (professional without trying too hard, he hoped), lit the fireplace again, arranged the contract and quills on the desk in his book-beleaguered study, and watched the minutes count down with ratcheting anxiety. He knew it was not manly, allowing himself to be overtaken by these infernal nerves. He tried to remember how confident he had felt at the masquerade. 

“I will find a way or make one,” he grumbled to himself, ceasing his perambulation and leaning his arm against one of the large, flat glass windows. 

Yes. Defeat was not an option. His witch would, obviously, accept his proposal.

… _but what if she doesn’t?_

But she would, of course.

… _but…she might not._

If for no other reason, she would do it for her extreme Gryffindor loyalty to her parents.

_There is loyalty in her, but there is also stubbornness. She may not yield._

He willed his inner voice to shut the fuck up. She was going to sign, and that was that.

_Or…she won’t._

And what then? What would be the point of it all? How would he reframe his life without the acquisition of this lioness as its ultimate goal?

How could one accept, having kissed those lips, pulled that hair, touched the innermost, most incandescent part of her, that one would never do so again?

His downward spiral – _I have to learn to stop doing this to myself, he chided_ – was interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening and what sounded like high heels coming down the hallway past the study into the living room. He had left the door open and instructed the guard (Wulfram, he remembered) escort her up and instruct her to come right in. Wulfram seemed to be better at following directions than Grischa Goyle, Merlin help him, and now she was approaching his back in slow, careful steps.

She was here, breathing the same air, seconds from giving him an answer that would, either way, change the entire course of his existence from this moment onward.

He did not turn around. If she was going to say no, he decided right then, he did not want to see her lips form the words. Hearing it would be horrendous enough – there was no need to give himself the memory of her face as she turned him down.

Antonin simply breathed, bringing himself back under command, and it was as he exhaled, pressing his palm to the glass, that he heard her declaration.

“I will do it.”

He blinked. It took him a few seconds to realize he had not hallucinated those four words from sheer wish fulfillment – that she had just, in fact, agreed to sign. 

_Moya ved’ma. Seychas i vsegda._

He squashed it in time, of course, but a tear _almost_ came into his left eye.

“Dolohov?” Hermione inquired, when he still hadn’t turned around to face her. She might have thought he had not heard her the first time, but little did she know he was taking a few euphoric seconds to luxuriate in the erasure of his worst fears. 

“I’ve decided to sign the contract,” she said. “But…I have three conditions.”

He turned then, and beheld her in her full radiance.

The utter fool. If he had only seen her when she walked in the room. No woman would dress like this to tell a man “no” – at least, no woman who wasn’t a complete sadist.

Underneath Hermione’s perfect waves of hair – which his fingers itched, once again, to pull – Antonin could just spy a pair of golden hoops in her ears that caught the twinkling firelight. She was wearing pale pink stiletto heels and a low-cut dress, which ended well above her knees, cut from jaquard satin fabric; it had expansive bell sleeves that gathered again at the wrists, but in every other cinch and stitch of the garment, it was fitted to the precise curves of her thoroughly exceptional body. (As someone who had often been forced to help his _babushka_ with sewing, both magical and standard, he had learned more about this arena than he’d ever realistically wanted to know.) 

Her enticing cleavage – and the top of her purple scar – were bared to him. He almost wondered if the little minx knew _exactly_ what it did to him to see his mark upon her.

By the end of the night, she would know, regardless.

As she took another step, he noted that the color of the dress… _ashes of roses?_ he might have heard Narcissa call it once…was a soft, delicate, thoroughly innocent pink – the type of innocent that invited ruination from a barely-controlled barbarian like Antonin.

He realized all of a sudden that he’d been devouring her with his eyes and not actually advancing the conversation, but he did not know a single man alive who would not have been struck dumb by the vision of the siren advancing upon him now.

He closed the gap between them, in three deliberate, silent strides, then took her hand and pressed it gently to his lips, registering the surprise in her expression.

“Before I say anything else… _thank you_ , Hermione,” he whispered. “You have made me happier tonight than I know, in this language, how to possibly tell you.”

He released her hand and gestured to the study, where the contract awaited them. With his other arm, he held out his elbow to escort her into the next six months of their lives.

“What are your conditions, then, _krasavitsa_?” he asked, letting a smile split his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: pravnuchka = "great granddaughter"; Grischa = nickname for Grigorij (and, in my mind, how Antonin thinks of Gregory, since he was once "in the ranks" with his father Goyle Sr.); moya wed’ma. Seychas i vsegda. = "my witch, now and always"
> 
> • This is what I modeled Hermione's dress off of; in my mind, it's just slightly tighter in the bodice/hips: 
> 
> https://us.shein.com/Lantern-Sleeve-Jacquard-Satin-Dress-p-1735421-cat-1727.html?url_from=adplaswdress42200812390M&gclid=Cj0KCQiAgomBBhDXARIsAFNyUqOfYV56ahYev0imCJi0WGswSMJwkw0dLHk5nOt9f-QgyOfPkSpN2uEaAi8YEALw_wcB
> 
> • Referring to that specific color of pink as "ashes of roses" came, mostly, from a series of books/TV miniseries called The Thorn Birds, a grand Australian saga that would have been very popular when Antonin and Narcissa were young. Small thing but felt I should clarify I did not come up with it myself.
> 
> • The next chapter shows Hermione explaining her three conditions, what happens when the contract is signed (and witnessed!), and how Lucius reacts when Narcissa tells him the news.


	16. "I Have Three Conditions"

<> <> <> <> <>

“I will do it.”

After all the pluck it had taken her to utter those four words, Dolohov had not even deigned to turn around and face her yet. Hermione wondered if he hadn’t heard her voice, or if he was shocked by her answer and taking a moment to mask it. She could only see the back of him – he was in a different suit this time, all black – as he leaned his long arm up against one of the vast glass windows that looked down over Diagon Alley. 

A burly, shaggy-headed security officer she had not seen before had escorted her on the elevator ride this time and told her to go in the door directly (it was the only brusque sentence he had uttered). Scraping up every crumb of her courage, and juggling squishy spheres of trepidation and excitement, Hermione had walked in the apartment to find her co-signer in the large, open living room and kitchen area, just as he was now. 

“Dolohov?” Hermione ventured, taking another two steps toward his back. “I’ve decided to sign the contract. But…I have three conditions.” 

He did finally turn around then, and she decided that he _had_ heard her the first time. She conjectured, from the look on his damnably handsome face, that he had been relishing her response – savoring the sound of her acquiescence to him.

But then, removing his hand from the glass, he promptly spent the next ten seconds ogling the everloving shit out of her – which, she felt, balanced the scales a bit. She _had_ put particular care into her appearance this evening (not willing to be outdone by Pansy again, though she doubted the bitch was even here), and a petty part of her was warmed by the knowledge that her physicality engendered a similar reaction in him to what his did in her. He, of course, was ridiculously delicious again in his tailored suit – _damn him_ – but his tie was loosened, and his rich brown hair was loose, falling about his face. Had he been doing some sort of activity before she got there, she wondered?

Before she knew it, he had taken three steps toward her, grasped her hand in his, and lifted it to his lips, kissing it with more gentleness than she ever could have anticipated, all the while gazing into her eyes as if he would die before letting her come to harm.

“Before I say anything else… _thank you_ , Hermione,” he whispered. “You have made me happier tonight than I know, in this language, how to possibly tell you.”

This man – the same one who had taunted her, not twenty-four hours before, about “taking his seed” – would certainly be keeping her on her toes for the next six months.

But the feel of his lips on her fingers had melted a shard of her that she’d tried to steel.

She allowed him to escort her into the study where, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he asked, “What are your conditions, then, _krasavitsa_?”

He brought over an antique office chair for her, placing it on one side of his desk while he walked around and sat on the other side. The old-fashioned green lamp was illuminating the contract, as well as three quills and three ink bottles, each of a different color. She took in a breath, letting the scent of the books steady the frantic beating of her heart.

“One,” she began, “is that you sign this contract as yourself – under your true name.”

His brows raised as he leaned back in his seat. “ _Nichevo strashnava_. I was planning on doing this already, so that one is easy. What is the next condition?”

“Two,” she continued. “Is that I want you to add an exclusivity clause. For yourself.”

He squinted, cocking his head to the side. Then, to her annoyance, he guffawed.

“Look,” she cut him off, ice in each syllable. “Narcissa said that you are ‘all or nothing’. Well, so am I. If I’m going to do this, whatever this is,” she said, pointing at the parchment, “I want it to be real, and as binding for you as it is for me. You don’t get to screw around, Dolohov. I don’t want you fucking Pansy in the lab on your lunch breaks.”

Unfortunately this only seemed to increase his laughter. She folded her arms as he used his index finger to wipe a delirious tear from his eye.

“Oh, Hermione. Forgive me; I am both touched and mortified. The fact that you would even think that I…” He shook his head, picking up the quill with the black feather. 

Still irritated, she leaned forward, wanting to see what he would write. 

“If you knew how unnecessary this was,” he stated, touching her hand across the desk, “then you would be laughing too. But, nonetheless,” he conceded, dipping the quill in the black ink bottle, “I will gladly include this addendum for you.”

She watched him add a postscript on to the contract in his the strong, captivating handwriting she’d come to recognize from reading his letters, possibly, just possibly, over and over again.

“And for the record,” he muttered, still writing, “although I have not yet had a chance to meet with her about her conduct yesterday, I believe that Ms. Parkinson looks at me in a more fatherly manner. From what I can tell, her eyes are fixed on another man entirely.”

Finishing the postscript, he passed the contract over for her perusal.

“Just as mine are fixed on you.”

That damned flush, she knew, had started on her chest, and of course she’d picked a dress which practically left an open window for it to shine through.

“And what is your third condition, my taskmaster?” 

She nodded to approve the addendum and handed the parchment back to him as she said, more hesitantly now, “I know that a huge component of this contract is…sexual.”

“Obviously,” he drawled, leaning on his hand and undressing her with his eyes.

“But…I don’t _only_ want to be your whore,” she said, more plaintively than she’d meant to. “Is that what this is? Is that _all_ this is? I just…perhaps it’s naive, but I don’t…”

Dolohov smirked, but there was no mockery in it. 

He stood, and then loomed over her, his hands spread wide on the desk, a posture which Hermione found arresting for reasons she could not exactly discern.

“Hermione…I will make no pretensions of being a monk. _I want you._ In fact, to simply say ‘I want you’, when I look at you right now, is an egregious understatement. My actions towards you have already betrayed as much. But my motivation for pursuing your signature is not only lust, although you drive me to the brink of madness with it.”

He came around to her side of the desk and leaned on it before continuing.

“I could have _bought_ a whore. I could buy a _hundred_ whores,” he replied, raising his other hand to point at the opulence of their surroundings. “But I did not lay on a slab, eating maggoty porridge, for years in Azkaban dreaming of _whores_. I dreamt of a goddess, a lioness, of the one woman I know is strong enough for me.”

He ran his hand through her hair, and she admonished herself for the way she sighed and leant automatically into his touch. 

“I dreamt of _you_.”

She might have stood and kissed him then. She might have done more. 

But at that instant a knock came from the door, snapping her out of her surrender; she moved back from his hand with a jolt as he yelled, “Come in!” 

He turned back to her and explained, “The signing of the contract requires a witness, and, given the circumstances, there was only one wizard I thought fit for the job.”

“Oh, Thorfinn! I’m so sorry!” Hermione called, as her friend sauntered into Dolohov’s study wearing jeans and a slightly ripped Amon Amarth t-shirt. She stood to hug him, lamenting, “I didn’t mean for you to have to come here on your day off. It’s the solstice!”

“Oh, don’t fret, Princess,” he returned, grinning at Dolohov. “He’s paying me for this.”

Antonin saluted him, somewhat sloppily, and walked back to his side of the desk. Now that the witness was here, she noted that he was wasting no time in signing. 

Thorfinn turned her face to him before she could move to pick up a quill.

“Before we go any further, I just want to make sure you feel good about this. If you feel in any way like we have forced you into this arrangement under duress, it’s not too late – ”

She heard the snapping of a quill before glancing back over at Dolohov, who looked like nothing so much as a villain in a Saturday morning cartoon, his vexation abudantly plain.

“Thorfinn, do you remember how you _just_ mentioned that _I’m_ the one who pays you?”

“I do, boss, but you’re my _friend_ first and foremost – and so is she.” He beamed at her and patted her shoulder, despite the immolating glare from his employer.

“Thank you, Thorfinn,” she replied, “Truly. You are a gem. But…I think I’m ready.”

 _Or as ready as I’ll ever be_ , she thought. 

He nodded at her as she walked over to join Antonin, picking up the second quill and dipping it into the scarlet ink that matched her house colors, as she suspected that he had intended. Before signing herself, she observed Dolohov’s signature.

“Who is Alexei?”

“What?” he barked, seemingly caught off guard, and unwilling to meet her eye.

“ _Antonin Alexei Dolohov_ ,” she read from the contract. “Is that a family name?”

She caught an unreadable look that passed between the two men.

“Is your signature dependent upon the receipt of this information?” Dolohov queried.

Curious, but catching a glint of pain in his features, she shook her head. “No.”

He touched his hand to her back, rubbing it in circles. “I will tell you, at some point. I promise. But today is too bright of a day for me to darken it with something so…”

“I understand,” she interjected. “I’m…sorry for prying.” 

“Don’t be. You are why the day is bright,” he responded, glancing at the contract.

Buoyed by his simple, straightforward sweetness, she leaned down to sign “ _Hermione Jean Granger_ ” in red above the line next to where her name was printed, getting it done quickly before she could entertain any more second thoughts. She felt Dolohov’s ferocious eyes on her the whole time. When she straightened, seeing the ominous flicker of an expression he had tried, and failed, to hide – all his former sweetness incinerated in the white-hot, avaricious delight of his triumph – she wondered absently if Millicent had been correct that morning over breakfast, and if she _had_ just made a deal with the devil. She supposed she would find out soon enough. 

When Hermione scooted over so that Thorfinn could sign his own name in green ink, she had thought that was the whole kit and caboodle – but Thorfinn took a few steps back and pulled out his wand, while Dolohov grasped her hand and held it tightly.

“ _Krasavitsa_ …”

“Ooooh,” called Thorfinn. “You already have _nicknames_?”

Dolohov, frowning and choosing to ignore him, asked, “Would you be so kind as to face me now, and to take this contract in your other hand – yes, your left, just like that – so that we are both holding the parchment, and each other? _Spasibo, da_ , just so.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand and grasping one end of the contract with the other, while he did the same, interlocking his fingers with her own. 

As they looked deeply into each other’s eyes, solemn and silent, Hermione felt for a panicked second as if she _was_ actually getting married. 

Thorfinn lifted his wand, in a commanding voice, and spoke one word – “ _Fiat_ ” – and their signatures were instantly illuminated in glowing golden light. She gasped, looking up to an amused Dolohov in confusion – he had not warned her of this – feeling a sudden, erratic sense of glee as the brilliant tendrils of magic snaked their way out from the paper on to both of their hands, binding their wrists in a warm, magical cord of gold, before shattering, with the sound of tiny tinkling sleigh bells, into a thousand yellow motes of dust around them. She tried to combat an overwhelming urge to hug Dolohov in that moment, to rush into his arms and never leave them – she knew it was the power of the contract – but her fighting was futile as he dropped the parchment on the desk and swept her into his own crushing embrace, wrapping both arms around her tightly and whispering into her hair, trembling, caring not a whit that his friend was there to see.

“Mine,” she heard. _“Khotya by na vremya.”_

<> <> <> <> <>

“A SOLSTICE CONTRACT?!?!?!?”

Lucius had screeched so loudly that Narcissa had almost fallen off the bed in surprise. He was sitting up – his pajama-clad legs folded over each other, guru style – having her change out the bandage on his scalp, when she broke the news to him. 

If his head wasn’t hurting before...

“Is this some kind of a sick _jest_?” he shouted, as she wrapped the new gauze around his head. “And why are you only telling me now that the deed is already _done?”_

“My love,” she said, evenly, “you _have_ to let me change out this bandage for you. There is no one else to do it. Therefore, you CANNOT be angry with me. That is the law.”

“Is that why you chose to tell me _now_?” he barked, refusing to look her in the eye.

She did not answer, maintaining her quiet treatment of his cranium. She could have done this with her wand, but she said she preferred to attach it by hand.

“Draco could do it,” he mumbled.

“Draco is over at Harry’s, at Grimmauld Place,” she responded, coolly.

He huffed, folding his arms.

“...Bipsy could do it,” he was surprised to hear himself say.

She gently turned his face towards her own and fixed him with an amused glare.

“Let me seek clarification. You would have _Bipsy_ , with her – and I quote – “grubby little grease-stained gnome fingers”, run her hands through your resplendent hair?”

“That...wasn’t me on my best day,” he grumbled. 

She nodded, smirking – _damn her lovely, mocking face_ – then got back to work.

He sighed, thoroughly exasperated, his head throbbing in a growing crescendo.

“It’s not even your fault, I know, dearest – I’m just shooting the messenger, as usual. But are you sure you couldn’t have discouraged her a _little_ more?”

“Lucius, my darling,” she cooed, pulling the platinum strands of his hair back to tie them with a black cord, “Poppet and Draco are the exact same age. They are _adults_. We have to let them make their own choices now.”

“Even _this_ choice? _Dolohov,_ of all men? I would vastly prefer Krum!”

“Furthermore,” she continued, unbothered by his outburst, “if this is her chance to get her parents back – don’t pout like that, yes I know you think of her as yours now, but her BLOOD parents, her muggle parents – then I do not blame her for wanting to take it.”

“But she’s signed a magical contract, my love. There’s no telling how he will be allowed to damage her over the next six months…”

She shrugged then (not a gesture he saw from her often), standing up from the bed.

“He seems to have been treating her quite well thus far,” she muttered.

“Don’t even look at me right now, Narcissa,” he hissed. “I do not even want to glean a glimmer of an intimation of what you mean by ‘treating her quite well.’”

She laughed then. It always reminded him of chimes, and somehow it eased him, even against his will. She went to the dresser and took a bottle of blue liquid which had arrived on their doorstep an hour before; he assumed she had ordered it from the apothecary.

“Well, whatever happens, we’ll be here for her,” she said, comfortingly, sitting beside him again on the bed. “For now; as hard as this is for you, you will have to trust her – ”

“It isn’t HER I don’t trust,” he mumbled.

“Do you trust _me_?” she asked, taking his hand in her own.

“With everything I have, and with everything I am,” he answered, gazing into her light blue eyes, without a beat of hesitation – because he did.

“Good,” she replied. “Then drink up.”

She shoved he potion into his hands. 

“What is it?” He inquired, holding the indigo liquid up to the light.

“It will accelerate your healing,” she whispered. “Draco has already had a drought.”

Lucius, in the throes of his concussion, had been somewhat out in orbit during these last couple of days, but amidst his mental fog he had registered that Draco was, somehow, doing _remarkably_ well, all things considered – especially to already be out with his boyfriend for Winter Solstice when he had been sliced and diced almost past the precipice of his own demise. Wondering if this potion was the reason for that, and being desirous of the same recovery rate, he downed the unction in one gulp.

“Blueberries!” was the last word Lucius uttered, before being smoothly overtaken by a blissful sleep, feeling his magnificent wife snuggling under the covers beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: Nichevo strashnava = "nothing scary", or how we would say "no big deal"; da = "yes"; Khotya by na vremya = "at least for a while" or "if only for a time"
> 
> • I feel like I should clarify this due to some of the comments asking about it, but it did not organically fit into the chapter itself. Lucius and Narcissa are *not* telling Draco, or anyone, about "Putorana's" actual identity, at least not yet. At this present time, the only people who know are the ones Antonin listed (the two of them, Thorfinn, Babushka, Hermione).
> 
> • The next chapter shows...THE DOSING OF THE VERITASERUM. Muahahahahahaha....


	17. "A Possible Need for Future Correction"

<> <> <> <> <>

“Is that too tight?” Dolohov asked Hermione, lightly touching the conjured ropes that now bound her wrists and ankles to the antique wood-and-leather office chair.

“No,” she said, feeling secured, but not uncomfortable.

Hermione almost could not believe that, after Thorfinn had taken his leave, she had nonchalantly allowed herself to be manacled by a death eater prior to her agreed-upon, post-signature dose of veritaserum – but Dolohov’s reasoning had been sound. 

“This version of the serum that we brew here,” he had explained, “is exceptionally powerful, but sometimes it can cause the subject to…flail. It will not last long, but in my experience it might be easier for you at the beginning if…you cannot harm yourself.” 

She had concurred, with shocking ease, and felt curiously unbothered as he uttered a less restricted, more targeted version of the _incarcerous_ spell, tying her legs together at the ankles each of her wrists to the arms of the old chair. 

Against all logic and reason, she was finding that she trusted him.

Perhaps she was still feeling euphoric from the contract, and numb to danger.

Then again, there might have been other, deeper reasons that this did not feel unpleasant to her, reasons that she chose not to examine in that moment. From the look on his face – intrigued, and possibly aroused – it was not unpleasant to Dolohov, either.

Once he was satisfied that she was allright, he went to pick up his own chair, lifting it above his head as if the entire piece of furniture were no bigger than a dandelion, and maneuvered it around the desk, placing it directly across from her. Before sitting down, though, he stepped closer to her and lightly tugged at her hoop earrings.

“It…might be safer if we remove these,” he said, with concern. “Would you allow me?” 

“Yes, thank you,” she said, wondering just how violent her reaction to the serum was going to be. She felt assuaged by his guileless smile, though – no malevolence, no mysterious planning, just simple pleasure – as he leaned down towards her, removing the gold jewelry one piece at a time. She could smell his birch tree scent again and shuddered at the gentle intimacy of the simple, thoughtful act, and his careful fingers on her earlobe, and seized the moment to examine his face – the dimples that formed when he smiled, the lines that arced outward from the corners of his eyes, the straight white teeth.

“My _babushka_ used to say that a lot can go wrong with hoops.”

“Will I get to meet her?” she asked in a whisper, still gazing at him, noting the dark brown hairs in his beard, the shade of morning coffee grounds.

“Yes,” he said, with a deep chuckle, “as soon as you like. Mishka is with her now. Although I warn you, little lioness, that at this time of year, it is very cold where she is.”

She had a hard time imagining ever feeling cold around this man. 

“Where did you get these, by the way?” he asked, placing both of the earrings on his desk. “They looked lovely on you – although you require no adornment.”

“My parents,” she answered, feeling a tightness in her chest. “It was the last birthday before…well.” She looked away from him, scanning all of the books, trying to ensure that no tears formed in the corner of her eyes. Now was the time for metal, not water.

“We will get them back,” she heard him assure her. “ _Obeshchayu_.”

She looked back up into Dolohov’s eyes, the color of rich brown earth that bore more enticing fruit than she could ever seem to comprehend. He was standing by his desk then, holding up a vial of syrupy, dark red liquid, gently shaking it back and forth.

“Are you ready?”

She simply nodded – it was too late then not to be ready, for anything. 

Hermione opened her lips and leaned back her head for him to pour half of the unction into her mouth. The liquid was not at all bitter – it was strong, but reminiscent of cherry brandy. Contrary to what she expected, he did not mock her at all, but was slow, dignified, ceremonious, almost as if giving a saccharine eucharist – and this blood would cleanse her, she knew, in a way. Her tongue would be wholly unburdened, wiped clean. Dolohov sat down across from her and watched her with the same hawklike intensity with which he’d watched her eat, that first night at the masquerade. 

It seemed impossible that it had only been four days ago, with all that had occurred.

“I do some of my own brewing in the apartment, just what I can manage on a little desk in my room,” she said, after a few seconds, filling the empty space of his dogged stare. 

“What do you make?” he asked, leaning his chin on his hand. 

“Just off-the-record things for people who need them. Nothing on the level of what you do here, of course. I just always enjoyed the subject in school.”

“You are more than welcome to use the lab at any time,” he offered, pointing to the floors beneath them, leaning back in his chair. “This is all yours now, too.”

“Thank you! I mean, _spasibo!!!_ ” she exclaimed, almost forgetting why she was actually here, what was about to happen to her. “Would you _really_ not mind if I – _ahhhh!!!”_

But she was cut off by her own gasp, throwing back her thick mane of hair as the potion immediately started to do its dastardly work. Dolohov hadn’t been exaggerating – something inside her _did_ want to kick and thrash. Gripping the wooden handles of the old office chair, she attempted, in desperation, to avoid falling apart under his scrutiny.

Then again, she remembered, he’d already seen her out of control.

“ _I can’t wait until it’s my cock that’s doing this to you, L’venok – ”_

“It’s worse at the beginning,” he consoled, his eyes brimming with…pity, or worry?

She gritted her teeth, still gasping for air, having the foolish, overawed notion that she might, if she did not concentrate hard enough, forget how to breathe.

“It will cease in a few minutes…” Dolohov promised. “ _Moya khrabraya devochka_.”

All Hermione could give was another nod, pursing her lips and trying to battle the fresh chaos within her. Everything that she tried to bury throughout each of her normal days was now surging to the surface like molten lava – the shadow self, long stifled, screaming to be released. And he hadn’t even asked her a question yet…

“To begin with,” he declared, “I would like to ask you for a safe word.”

This was not where Hermione had anticipated that he would start her interrogation. She had not, in fact, anticipated this query at all.

“…a safe word,” she repeated, feeling rather stupid.

“It is to be used _sparingly_.” He fixed her with a warning look. “It is not a get-out-of-jail-free card for when you simply don’t feel up to taking my cock on any given afternoon.”

Somehow, surveying the six-feet-plus of lean, lithe muscle that sat before her, one leg resting on his other knee – his casual posture contrasting with the vehemence in his expression – Hermione doubted that would ever be an issue for her.

“It is there for you to use, however,” he continued, “because I sincerely want you to have something you can utilize in case you ever genuinely need or want me to stop what I am doing to you. I can be… _kak skazat' eto po-angliyski_ …untrammeled?”

He broke eye contact with her to finish loosening his tie, laying it on the desk along with the earrings, as he clarified, “I am not quite the monster you might have thought me, Hermione. But I _can_ be monstrous, and I can already feel that…your presence calls to… the wickedness within me. If you use this safe word, I will stop whatever I am doing to you and walk away, no questions asked. It needs to be something unique, something you would not say on accident, something with no sexual context whatsoever – ”

“Crookshanks!” she interjected. 

Meeting her gaze again, he blinked a couple of times, countenance inscrutable.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I am finding it harder to…not…speak.”

Dolohov laughed, the sound washing over her like the first step into a hot shower. He picked up his wand from the desk, using an _accio_ to fetch a new piece of parchment and and then dipping his quill into the black ink, leaning over the side of the desk that was accessible to him from where he sat across from her. She had not realized he would be taking notes, and found this…adorable was _surely_ not the right word in context with a wretch such as him, but, seeing the seriousness of his expression as he wrote down her dead cat’s name, she had difficulty scrounging up anything else.

“Crookshanks it is,” he agreed, nodding, and pausing briefly. “Still mourning, then.”

“How on earth did you know? Ah!” she breathed, “Of course – Thorfinn.” The desire to flail, growl, and generally raise hell was already dying down, replaced by a visceral compulsion to spill her every thought to this beautiful, horrific, enthralling, perilous man.

He shrugged, smiling. “He was just worried about you.”

“He offered to loan me Huginn,” she recalled, “but I couldn’t bear to separate them.” She meant both Thorfinn and his bird, and also the two birds from each other. 

“Kindhearted of you – as seems to be your default setting,” he complimented.

“ _Speaking_ of our mutual Danish friend, however,” she chided, not registering his compliment until she’d bulldozed her way into a new request. “While you’ve got your wand at hand, can you cast some kind of silencing spell around the apartment?”

“ _Nyet problem_ ,” he conceded, casting it easily in an instant, “but why do we need it?”

“Well, he _apparently_ heard every word that came babbling out of my mouth last time I was writhing underneath your ministrations, and, well, you know,” she shared, with embarrassment strong enough to still reach her through the calm of the potion. “I mean…I don’t mean to be _presumptuous_ ,” she squeaked, realizing how accidentally forward she had just been, “but…just in case we…end up…needing it?”

“I don’t think that there will be anyone out there now,” he clarified, with a smirk, “but the spell should cover any shenanigans that might ensue this evening.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, immensely relieved that she would not be humiliated again. 

“Furthermore,” he muttered, with an odd sigh – on any other man, she might have thought it sounded guilty. “Talk of shenanigans actually leads me to my next question.” 

He looked her dead in the face, with no preamble.

“I require a narrative of your sexual history.”

Hermione’s jaw flapped open. She knew she looked like a fresh caught fish, unable to comprehend the metal jutting through its translucent lip, but did not care.

“… _all_ of it?”

“Yes.”

“Dolohov!!!” she yelled, two-thirds outraged and one-third amused.

“Hermione,” he soothed, “do not mistake me – it is not that I will judge you or that I care how many partners you have had. Trust me, I have no room for such hypocrisy. I simply need to know which men to watch out for from now on.”

“I keep my word, Dolohov,” she assured him. “I have no intention of cheating on you.”

“You are not the one I would be worried about, my crimson lady.”

“I see,” she returned, unable to stifle a grin. “I have to warn you that the information you’ve requested…well, frankly, I fear it’s going to make me look a bit inept. Even Narcissa wrings her hands over my tepid dating life. I’ve had just a couple of actual boyfriends – only one for more than a year – and ongoing hookups. This list is for…your own curiosity?”

“That, yes,” he grumbled, “but also because of the contract.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“If anything happens to either of us that the solstice contract construes as cheating, or breaking our agreement, the other person will be notified,” he explained, patiently. 

“Notified…how?”

“The golden cord you saw around our wrists earlier will reappear. My understanding is that this detection magic is especially… _sensitive_ around previous sexual partners. I just…stop looking at me like that, witch…who knew you had such a face in your arsenal! Allright, yes, _of course_ , I will detest these men with all my corroded heart, but, because of the magic – for practical purposes – I need to know who to keep an eye on going forward.”

She shrugged, the serum gradually erasing her objection to the conversation. In fact, there might have been a part of her that was curious to see his reactions.

“Fair enough,” she replied, with considerable sass. “In what order would you like me to list my phallic conquests for your august perusal, _sir_?”

“Don’t you rile me up yet, L’venok,” he barked – but there was no anger in it. Not yet.

She tried to cross her legs coquettishly before she remembered they were tied together.

“The fun comes later,” he taunted, his wink almost melting her into the leather. He dipped his quill and prepared to commit her catalog of male flesh to his parchment. 

“As to the partners, going from the first to the most recent would seem…logical.”

“Well, the answer to both of those questions is the same man.”

His quill froze in midair as he raised an eyebrow. 

“Viktor Krum,” she revealed, raising her own eyebrow back in a challenge.

“ _Cyka blyat_ , the Bulgarian?!?” he shouted, incredulous. “This is…a bolt out of the red.”

“I think the phrase is ‘a bolt out of the blue,’” she corrected, gently, as she watched the full implications of her revelation sink in. “But your phrase might be better, as his uniform was always red, and rather smart.” Dolohov’s brows furrowed in irritation and, if not for the veritaserum, she probably would have stymied the laugh that erupted from her then.

“…HOW recent?” he ground out after a few seconds, his teeth gnashed together.

“Two to three weeks ago,” she answered.

He exhaled a long, grumpy breath as he carefully wrote down Viktor’s name. “And, the first time….” he squinted, seeming to search his own memories. “When he traveled here for the Triwizard Tournament, your fourth year at Hogwarts, I think?”

“Yes, that's when we met, although the sexual component didn't start until a little afterward...”

He dropped his quill and tented his fingers. “You were a _child.”_

“I was sixteen when we got around to it. Are you just mad it wasn’t you?”

 _Oh dear. What possessed me to say that?_ she wondered, as he, his eyes wide with shock, rubbed his temples with his fingers and stared daggers at her. 

_Ah, yes, of course – the veritaserum._

_Then again_ , she considered, drinking in his half-flustered, half-enraged expression as he mumbled to himself in indiscinct Russian phrases, _he’s not denying it._

“We never stopped writing to each other,” she continued, “although my last two letters to him were sent back to me, and I think I know why,” she prattled amiably, drugged nearly into oblivion and utterly unconcerned about giving much more detail than Dolohov really needed. “His agent is not a fan of mine, ever since Viktor drunkenly confessed to some madcap fantasy of quitting quidditch, marrying me, and taking me back to the Bulgarian countryside to raise approximately nine and one half children.” 

“But you…” Dolohov ventured, breathing slowly, corralling his pique. “It was never public knowledge that you were together, unless I have missed something integral?”

“No, I mean – again, this comes down to the objections of Ivan, his agent, something to do with sponsorships – but we never _were_ technically together. It’s just that we always write back and forth and, whenever I’m not in a relationship, I guess I am his…fuck buddy? He sneaks me into his hotel room whenever he is in town.”

Dolohov looked at her like she had just sprouted a second nose.

“Fuck…buddy.”

“Yes. Like a ‘friend with benefits.’”

He fixed her with a low-lidded, unamused glare.

“I am not sure I can match him in muscles,” he conceded, morosely.

“Oh,” she replied, wholly amiable. “That’s not why I liked him.”

“Why then?” he snapped. She could already tell he was getting more than he had bargained for with this question, and perversely relished every twitch of his jealousy.

Without an ounce of hesitation, she replied, somewhat wistfully, “He was the first man to ever make me feel beautiful – the first to treat me like I was worth something.”

Dolohov seemed to chew on this information before responding. 

“I cannot adequately convey to you how much I despise him in this moment for possessing that distinction in your life. But…your truth was well-spoken.”

She bowed her head before continuing. 

“The next was Ron, which I’m sure you knew,” she uttered, blandly, lifting up her joined legs at the knees and stretching them with a wholly un-self-conscious mewling sound.

“Ron…Weas…ley,” Dolohov recited out loud as he wrote it on the paper. “The ginger who wanted you to kill me in the café. But luckiIy my sweet witch did not listen to him.”

“You weren’t supposed to remember any of that,” she lamented.

“Don’t beat yourself up, _umnitsa_ – it was Severus who reversed it for us, and he was, as you know, impeccable. In my opinion, the third most powerful wizard in the world back then, right underneath Dumbledore and Riddle. And, unlike the situation with your parents, Riddle had implanted some safeguards in all of his soldiers to protect against that eventuality. So it’s no reflection on your spell,” he said, smiling. 

“Would that I had done the same for my mother and father – if I’d known how.”

He shrugged. “I can teach you at some point. It’s sort of a safety net for the memories that get obliviated, to where someone can, later, retrieve them and put them back in place.”

She wanted to learn more about that immediately, ever hungry for knowledge, but he was already tapping Ron’s name on the parchment with the feathered end of his quill. 

“I had feared, in the years I was imprisoned, that you would marry this one,” he confessed.

“I think _most_ people believed that we would,” she agreed. “And…” she ventured, taking in a deep breath, “I think it would have been a huge mistake.”

From Dolohov’s facial expression, it seemed that he was in enormous agreement but, due to an unexpected moment of tact, chose to bridle his tongue.

“But,” she went on, “he was my longest relationship, by a long shot. So it was…formative. You should harbor no concern during these next six months about him _ever_ seeking me out, though. Unlike Viktor, Ron and I aren’t on speaking terms,” she babbled, having no idea that the next day she would beat herself up for so much of her history she was gleefully confessing now. “I regret _how_ it all ended more than I regret that it _did_ end, if that makes sense. I had naively hoped, if anything dire ever happened, that we would remain friends. But when I testified for the Malfoys, and for Thorfinn…well, it got ugly. His whole family seems to hate my guts now, with the exception of…”

To her surprise, Dolohov was laughing again, his shoulders shaking.

“What is so funny?” She complained. Had she the liberty, she would have folded her arms, but all she could while tied up in his ropes was purse her lips in disapproval.

(She could have asked him to remove her bindings. She could have asked herself why she was so content to be manacled, displayed, helpless before him. But she did neither.)

In answer, Dolohov muttered, “You think he reacted poorly to your associations with Lucius and Narcissa? Just imagine if he could see where you are sitting now.”

She giggled then. He had a fair point about the absurd path her existence had taken.

“I also dated Blaise Zabini for a few months,” she continued. “He was a Slytherin in Draco’s year. Thorfinn warned me against it and I should have listened. But,” she said, mildly, flipping her hair by moving her head in an arc, “you don’t need to worry about me running into him – I heard that he emigrated to New Zealand a few months ago.”

“That…seems drastic,” Dolohov took a break from writing to say, his tone suspicious.

“Yes, well, he successfully alienated all the women on one island and needed another, I suppose,” she snapped. “He can find himself another four girlfriends there.”

“Four? This is almost as bad as your Henry VIII,” he said.

“About the only positive thing I can say,” she added, shrugging her shoulders as much as she could while tied down, “is that he certainly had the stamina for it…”

“ _Khristos Vsederzhitel_ ’!” he interjected, a bit miserably. “How many more men are there?”

“I mean, by modern standards, Dolohov, three or four is _not_ that many…”

“I just need to know if I should get more paper,” he lied, clearly supplying an excuse for the question when he was, in fact, getting exponentially more cranky with each listed name. But Hermione had not a single mote of sympathy for him, since _he_ had been the one to ask. (Or, it could have been that his serum dulled the instincts which normally would have told her, “Hermione, please stop poking the death eater.”) 

“There is only one more gentleman remaining, you poor, long-suffering martyr. ‘To-morrow ends thine earthly ills,’ my six-month lord and master,” she swooned, replete with theatrics and derision. He rolled his eyes at her, shaking his head. 

“This serum is making you an incorrigible chit,” he admonished. 

“You insisted on administering it to me!” she objected, all in a rush. “And I don’t _intend_ to be a chit. My mouth just feels like it has its own agenda ever since you poured that liquid inside it. I am, truly, sorry, Dolohov. This is going to be one of those moments that replays over and over again in my head tomorrow, when I will remind myself I’m not equipped for basic human social interaction, much less any kind of relationship – ”

Dolohov pinned her with one of his razor-sharp, thoroughly dangerous looks that, for whatever fucked-up reason, seemed to go straight to her knickers.

“ _I. Did. Not. Say. I. Didn’t. Like. It,_ ” he hissed, every syllable the slice of a scimitar. 

Hermione tried to stop it – _damnit, don’t do it, don’t give into him so bloody easily all the time_ , she thought – but could not prevent herself from biting her lip and wriggling underneath the bindings as his eyes assaulted a path all the way down her body. 

Was this _really_ why he’d dosed her – so there would be no disguising her lust for him?

“It simply,” he whispered, his left hand gripping his chair with an unnecessary but enthralling amount of vigor, “implies a possible need for future _correction_.”

_Fuck._

At the sound of his lips forming the word “correction”, she felt the burning path of the accursed red blotches bleed into the white skin of her throat. She would _always_ be his "crimson lady," no matter what she wore, if he kept talking to her like that.

“Well,” she said, a little huskily, glancing up at the ceiling. “One of your colleagues _did_ say I was an insufferable know-it-all who was incapable of restraining myself…”

“Then perhaps it is fortunate that I restrained you,” he growled, leaning forward in his chair, tantalizing her by softly running his fingers around the back of one of her calves.

“Mmmmmm,” she hummed, smiling, eyes closed, cherishing his delicate touch.

_Cuntwollops._

There was nothing to be done. Tonight, she was an open book, her pages spread wide by cherry brandy fingers, powerless to stop those who would study her.

“I have to finish these blasted questions, Hermione,” he said, retracting his hand and balling it into a fist. “Or else I would already have destroyed this beautiful silk dress, which you picked out specifically to torture me this evening.”

“Dolohov, I meant no harm – ”

“You knew what you were doing the moment you zipped it up,” he scolded, running his hand over the floral patterned jacquard fabric above her knees. “You fail to comprehend how much jeopardy you are in, little lioness. You are _playing_ with me.”

“But – you _asked_ me for my history – ”

“And you are _luxuriating_ in my hatred of every other man who even had the chance to breathe your precious oxygen while I was decaying in the middle of the North Sea.”

In what felt like a millisecond, he was on his knees before her, sliding his palm up her thigh. She could do nothing but endure him, to relish the heat rolling off of his hand.

“Hermione,” he rebuked, panting now, his words at odds with his tone. “I worship you. I crave your laughter, your eyes on me, your submission, your triumph. I seek your comfort, your pleasure, your obliteration. And right now, witch of mine, I want nothing more than to _wrap my hand around your throat while I pump my children into your fucking womb.”_

For a second, they both just gazed at each other, mutually shocked by his declaration. 

“But, for the moment, I _need_ to finish…these questions. And I need you… _to behave.”_

She froze, not even blinking, and despising him for the command he already had over her, not even an hour outside of signing on the dotted line. She tried to console herself – _it’s just the veritaserum, it’s not your fault_ – but a deeper part of her spurned her own lies.

They were both breathing heavily – Hermione, not moving an inch, her back straight and chin raised, and Dolohov, removing the blessed anathema of his hand, retreating from her, and sitting down. He leaned back in his chair again, biting his own trembling fist. 

“Can you do that? Can you…be good for me, _krasavitsa?_ ” he growled.

She could behave. She could be good. Why had she been the insufferable know-it-all to begin with? What had she always wanted, all of those years, if not praise?

She nodded, gathering her thoughts.

“Allright. I can behave,” she agreed. “For you.”

His molten gaze was unwavering as he crossed his leg over his knee again, nodding.

“See that you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • "Tomorrow ends thine earthly ills" is a quote from Lord Byron's Manfred, which will be referenced again by Pansy in a later chapter.
> 
> • New Russian phrases: obeshchayu = "I promise"; moya khrabraya devochka = "my brave girl"; kak skazat' eto po-angliyski = "how to say it in English?"; nyet problem = "no problem", kind of casual; Khristos Vsederzhitel = this is just a Russian translation of kind of an old-fashioned medieval designator of Jesus/blasphemy in Antonin's case, "Christ Pantocrator," pantocrator in latin roughly meaning "ruler over all". The more colloquial version might be "Christ Almighty" although the meaning isn't the exact same.
> 
> • Yes, I know I had Antonin describe himself as "untrammeled" in both this fic and my other fic ("Blood From a Mile Away", about the anonymous sex club). I just really liked that word and could not come up with one I preferred.
> 
> • In the next chapter, the interrogation continues, but...wait, what's this...Hermione's not the only one? :-D
> 
> • I am adding this addendum as I got a question about this from a reader. I know that Hermione was 15 when Viktor first came to England; in this particular universe of mine, I am writing that their association continued past that point and that Viktor waited until she was 16 to have sex with her, both to make sure she felt ready and because, unless I have misunderstood something critical, because 16 is the age of consent in the UK. That's why I have her say "when we got around to it."


	18. "You Are the Pearl of Great Price"

<> <> <> <> <>

“Can you do that? Can you…be good for me, _krasavitsa?_ ” he growled.

She could behave. She could be good. Why had she been the insufferable know-it-all to begin with? What had she always wanted, all of those years, if not praise?

She nodded, gathering her thoughts.

“Allright. I can behave,” she agreed. “For you.”

His molten gaze was unwavering as he crossed his leg over his knee again, nodding.

“See that you do.”

He had wanted her to finish her sexual history, such as it was, she recalled, through the swirling haze of magic and drugs and her own libido – so that was what she would do.

“The last one…is sort of a secret, although for some reason Pansy, of all fucking people, knows about it – and if Thorfinn got drunk at some work function and was gossiping about my private life I’m going to blood eagle him in your lobby.”

He chuckled, seemingly relieved this was the final entry, and it dissipated some of the tension between them. He picked up the quill and nodded for her to continue.

“George Weasley.”

He sat back in his chair rapidly, as if he was avoiding a spilled wine glass.

“…the brother?” he almost shrieked, his earlier severity dissipated by surprise.

“…yes.”

“ _Gavno,_ Hermione, that’s…bold of you.” 

“Neither of us are particularly proud of ourselves,” she confessed. 

“Is it the dragon brother?”

“No, that’s Charlie.”

“The ministry brother, the weedy one?”

“Percy, and also…” She shuddered. “Absolutely not. Never in a million years.”

“Then it must be the one with the scar, who married the frenchwoman.”

“No,” she giggled, his repeated strikeouts as amusing to her as they were annoying to him. “George was one of the twins. The other, Fred, died at the battle of Hogwarts. George is the one who runs the joke shop at the other end of Diagon Alley, who – ” 

“ _Ya zabyl_ – Severus shot his ear off, _da_?”

“Yes!,” she answered, smiling. “That’s the one.”

“So you…you ‘ _went out_ ’ with this man, despite almost marrying the youngest one?”

“The youngest boy, you mean – Ginny’s actually the youngest of them all.” Later she would feel so stupid, recalling how the veritaserum had compelled her to word vomit every single detail that came into her brain, addled already by exhaustion and desire.

“But no, we did not ‘go out.’ He has been another…”

“Fuck buddy?” Dolohov supplied, his voice dripping with disgust.

“I suppose, although the sex itself could not have been more different than it was wirh Viktor. With George, it seemed like it was more about…physical commiseration,” she rambled. “I think I helped him heal a little, if that’s not too arrogant to say, from losing Fred, and I don’t regret that. But there’s no way we could have ever become anything, with all the bad blood between his family and myself. So, yes, he was just a semi-regular ‘dick appointment,’ as my office mate refers to them. We never, ever planned it. We’d simply run into each other, out and about, and it would just…happen. I haven’t fucked him since All Hallows’ Eve. I just remember that he was dressed as a scarecrow and there were bits of hay in my own costume all the way back to my own apartment.”

Dolohov was mumbling and shaking his head as he wrote George’s name. 

“What?” she probed. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking that it perplexes me, this ‘fuck buddy’/‘dick appointment’ arrangement that you describe,” he confided, still focused on the parchment, “because, even from a distance, you have always seemed so…earnest. I am simply surprised that an enchantress like you would entertain such a lack of commitment from these fools.”

Again, she shrugged, as much as she could. 

“I have needs.”

His eyes locked on to hers, precise and swift, like an archer sighting a target.

“And I plan to address them.”

Some mechanism inside her, down below her belly button, felt like it did a cartwheel.

_Nock, draw, loose – bullseye._

Dolohov folded one hand over the other, placed his elbows on his knees, and leaned his chin on his knuckles, seeming a little tentative.

“That is all?”

“Yes, sir. That is all,” she responded. “Not a particularly interesting report, I know.”

“I would not say it was _uninteresting,_ Hermione. Thank you for divulging this information, as vexing as it may have been to my ears. But I noticed that you did not mention Thorfinn.”

She reared back, as much as the ropes allowed her, frowning, as if slapped.

“This…was supposed to be a _sexual_ history. Thorfinn and I have never fucked.”

Dolohov, the supposed cold-blooded murderer, looked for a moment like every single ounce of anxiety had instantaneously evaporated from his body. He slunk down into his chair like a wet noodle and issued a dramatic gurgling sigh, his legs lollygagging on the hardwood floor, and took few seconds to gather himself. Again, Hermione could not put a muzzle on her laughter. This occasional comic side of him was – once she knew his real, frightening identity – not something for which she had been prepared. 

“You should have lead with that, if you were so worried.”

“You saw _nothing_ just now,” he teased, sitting back up and running his fingers through his lush hair, the color of Gabi’s chocolate bar. He squished his lips together and squinting at her, seeming to be on the precipice of another question.

“Go ahead and ask,” she encouraged. “It will bother you if you don’t, most like.”

“Who was the best lover, out of the four of them?” he muttered, quick, and sheepish.

She cackled. “You JUST told me, Dolohov, that this entire conversation was ‘vexing’ to your ears. Are you SURE you want me to share this informa – ”

“I must know who I need to _surpass_!” he yelled, only half-joking, it seemed, his fist slamming down on the chair handle. Maybe he wasn’t joking at all, actually.

“Well don’t get mad at me for it, then! I have a feeling you’ll take this out on me later.”

“I will do as I _please_ with you, witch,” his low voice rumbled.

“See that you do,” she spat back, unbowed. 

He was biting his fist again, tapping the heel of his foot and…growling? Yes, growling.

“But anyway,” she said, stretching her constrained legs once again, “it was Viktor.”

“I fucking knew it,” he mumbled. 

“George would be second. He was…caring, and attentive, but overall, Viktor was galaxies beyond the rest of them. And before you accuse me of _playing_ with you again by saying that,” she cautioned, watching his hand form the strange, frustrated claw gesture again as it hovered above his knee, “this entire situation you have me in is EXTREMELY unfair and, I’m pretty sure, a violation of the Geneva conventions.”

This seemed to catch him off guard.

“ _Krasavitsa_ , I do not understand. This was in the contract, which you signed.”

“I know that – but YOU’RE a part of this contract, too, so it’s not right that *I’m* the only one who had to submit to the liquid mortification of your superpowered veritaserum.”

He actually appeared to give that some thought, pivoting his head back and forth in a gesture of consideration, before shrugging, reaching over to grab the the bottle – half of the red potion still remaining – and downing it in one gulp like a shot of tequila.

“Oh,” she replied, simply. “I…wasn’t actually expecting you to do it.” She felt like he was already barely in control of himself as it was and began to regret her hubris.

“Please, Hermione, do you think I fucking care?” he chortled, derisively. “I worked for _Voldemort_. I have been dosed with far, far worse than this.”

“What about the flailing? Do you need…help?”

“I will pace, for a while,” he replied, standing. “I’ve had this several times and know what to expect. I rarely put anything on the market without having tested it on myself. Anyway,” he said, shimmying his hands and arms, wildly, like a dog shaking off bathwater, “I have nothing to hide from you at this point. Let the masks fall for good.” 

As he began to pace back and forth in the study, she said, feeling supremely idiotic, “I really only just…wanted to know if you’d fucked Pansy. She was rather territorial.”

He laughed, high and merry, pivoting on one foot in the corner to turn back around.

“No, never, and it never even entered my mind as a possibility, silly girl.”

“Have you fucked anyone who works here?”

“No,” he said, and he started to box an imaginary opponent, throwing a few punches. She enjoyed watching it. “Again, never even entered my mind as a possibility.”

“Also, is there a reason why you haven’t cut my ropes yet? I’m no longer flailing.”

“Yes,” he said, staring her down without an inch of shame. “I told you – I am monstrous. It turns me on, to have you at my mercy. And it may not be the last time I tie you up.”

She blinked. If it turned _her_ on that it turned _him_ on, who was the more monstrous?

“Any more questions, high inquisitor?” he barked, still pacing back and forth.

“Yes, just one that I can think of. You said…” she started, hesitant. “Earlier, right before we signed the contract, you said you had _dreamed_ of me, when you were in Azkaban. Thorfinn said you _loved_ me, although I know he has a penchant for hyperbole –” 

Dolohov stopped abruptly, staring at her in unconcealed panic before she continued. 

“And Narcissa even said you ‘harboured a fixation’ on me. I wasn’t even planning on asking you this but, now, I suppose I just want to know…why. Why me?”

He resumed walking, wiggling his fingers, something manic in his gait. Was he trying to stifle the answer somehow, to fight the drug he had crafted with his own hands?

“As I’ve just related to you,” she went on, “I’ve never been particularly fought-over or pursued by anyone. I miss him, at unexpected times, but I don’t even know if _Ron_ really loved me, or if we knew what love actually was back then. I think I was just…there. Easy. And I certainly made life easier _for_ him.”

“You were a pearl before swine,” he ground out, gripping one of the shelves. 

Dolohov would not even look at her then. She was shocked at how much he was fighting this, knowing the utter fool that the serum had made, and was making, of her.

“But I’m…just…a bookworm. I’m not particularly stylish. I hate sports, I live in an apartment where something new falls apart every week, I’m not well-traveled – ”

“I have made plans to remedy that,” he said, quietly, still not turning around.

“ – and basically I suppose I’m worried that you’ve built me up in your mind as some kind of conquest, some sort of achievement to check off a list, but that once you have me you’ll discover I’m – ” She wanted to stop herself, knowing it sounded pathetic, but the cherry-red doom would not allow it. “That I’m actually quite milquetoast, not enthralling in any way, and find yourself wishing you weren’t tethered to me for six months – ”

“ _RaaaaaaAAAAHHH!!!_ ” he roared, more bear than man, having grabbed one of the poor, defenseless books and thrown it full force across the room. She found herself crouching even though its flight path was nowhere near her.

“I’m… _izvini_ ,” he said, his whole body seeming to shake. “It’s…I’m still in the onset. It will die down, probably in two minutes. But, Hermione,” he clarified, looking up at her, earnest, even hurt, “I cannot express to you how it enrages me that other people have made you feel this way about yourself. You feel like a plebeian, but the woman tied to my chair right now is an Olympian,” he stated, walking over to his desk and leaning back on it, grasping its edge with both hands. He gazed down at her, inhaling a deep breath.

“I…I told you yesterday I have spoken this language for a long while but…there are instances…” he shook his head. “When I feel something…so deeply, as I feel for you, it is still hard to find the words. You ask me why? Why this contract? So that I could guarantee, whatever you decide to do afterwards, that at least those six months of my life would be worth the seven hells I waded through to get here – worth every curse, every cut, every dose, every punch, every loss, every tear, every scream, every – ” 

He stopped, pain evident across his handsome features. 

“Dolohov,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you…”

“You do not hurt me,” he said, a sad smile on his face. “And listen to me closely, _krasavitsa_. You will _never_ disappoint me. You are incapable of it. You are not just ‘an achievement to check off a list,’ as you put it. You are _the_ achievement – the only thing I’ve ever truly cared about attaining. You are…how do you say _sokrovishche_ …a 'treasure'. _You_ are the pearl of great price,” he said, pointing at her. “You have _no idea_ how fierce you are, my witch, in the heat of battle, what it is like to watch you fight, what it does to a man like me,” he whispered, meandering to his chair and sitting down again. 

“Soon, you _might_ have an inkling,” he uttered, looking her up and down again, unhurried and deliberate. She felt as if she was already naked before him.

“But you are the _only_ woman to ever best me, in any way. Ever. And you are the only woman on this earth _for me_ , Hermione… _BLYAT_ ,” he screamed, trying to cover his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” she inquired, trying to lean forward.

“Taking the serum was a fucking mistake. It was false bravado to impress you and now I don’t want to fucking…I’m going to say too much and scare you away after the contract ends but I did TOO GOOD OF A FUCKING JOB MAKING THIS AND – ”

She wanted to go to him, to embrace him, to try to calm him, but could offer no aid as his legs twitched and he tried to master himself, ultimately failing – but doing so cleverly.

“ _Ya tebya lyublyu_ , allright? _Ya tebya lyublyu, ya tebya lyublyu, ya lyublyu tebya do skonchaniya vekov,_ ” he shouted, running his trembling fingers across his scalp. “ _Ya khochu pokhitit' tebya! Ya khochu trebovat' tebya navsegda_!” he yelled. It was all coming out in a bitter frenzy, and she could not distinguish a single word of it. 

“ _Ya khochu vernut' tebya v Sibir' i spryatat' tam, gde ni odin men'shiy chelovek ne smozhet uvidet' tebya, poka ty zhiv! Kazhdyy raz, kogda ya vizhu etot grebanyy shram, kotoryy ostavil tebe, ya gorzhus' etim, potomu chto eto oznachayet, chto ty moya, i ty byla moyey s tekh por, kak byla devushkoy! Ya nikogda ne vyydu zamuzh, yesli vy ne voz'mete moye imya! U menya ne budet detey, yesli ty ikh ne rodish’! Ya ne primu nichego men'shego, chem ty! I chto by vy ni reshili delat' cherez shest' mesyatsev, ya budu lyubit' vas, poka oni ne polozhat pod zemlyu moye kholodnoye mertvoye telo!!!”_

“Dolohov!” she chided, irritated but not surprised by his duplicity. “That’s _cheating!_ "

“The magic demands honesty but does not demand ENGLISH!!!” he screamed, balling his fists and staring at her as if he might just as soon curse her as undress her. 

“ENOUGH of this – I do not like _answering_ the questions, _wed’ma_. It is my turn to ask.”

He stood up with a grunt in one sudden, angry movement and ripped off his own suit jacket, throwing it carelessly to the floor as only someone who knew magical ironing spells could do. He removed his onyx cufflinks and placed them on the desk.

“Last round of interrogation, my crimson lady. Tell me. Do you find me attractive?”

“Yes. FUCK,” she lamented. “How dare you, you arrogant _bastard_. I’m supposed to act coy. I’m not supposed to just come out and say that this early – ”

“To what degree?” he pressed on, devilishly undoing each button on his shirt. She knew he enjoyed watching her squirm and flush as he unrapped himself to her gaze.

“Extremely. _Immensely_. FUCK, Dolohov!!!” She stomped her bound feet on the ground like a child. “I even told Millicent you were ‘my sort of problem’ – DAMNIT!”

“Since when?” he continued, fixing her with a disdainful smirk, undoing the last button.

“Since the moment you caught me in your arms at the masquerade – FUCK FUCK FUCK HERMIONE STOP FUCKING TALKING!” she wailed, wriggling under her bonds.

Without a shred of clemency, he smiled as he pulled off his shirt, dropping it on top of the jacket. She gasped – _Hermione, the Prophet was right about you, you brazen hussy, can you not keep it together for one bloody second_ – as she observed the shape of his sculpted chest and broad shoulders, the dark mark undisguised on the inside of his forearms, and the faded scars that criss-crossed his skin like a child’s messy tic-tac-toe game. She itched to run her fingers over each one of them, and through the fine chest hair, the same color as his beard. 

“…do you want me now?” he inquired, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

“Yes. _Bloody hell_ ,” she seethed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course,” he chuckled. He picked up his wand and began to stalk towards her, like a wildcat. She could not possibly take her eyes off of him, even if she had wanted to. 

Dolohov, with agonizing slowness, leaned down close to her ear and whispered. 

“Do you want me to _fuck_ you, little witch?”

She tried to grit her teeth, close her mouth, keep one last shred of dignity –

“ _Yessss!?!?!_ ” came her reply, the indomitable truth.

He chuckled in a way that didn’t seem like a laugh at all – instead, it was a warning. He lifted up her chin with one hand and aimed his wand at her body with the other.

“ _Krasavitsa_ …already, I can deny you nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • ANTONIN'S BIG RUSSIAN VERITASERUM RANT. Allright, this apology goes out to iaine_mac or any other Russian speaking readers. I normally try to research the snippets of Russian language I include here to check on context, but in this instance I simply had to use Google; therefore, there are probably inaccuracies, but with the situation of my life and career being what it is this was the best I was able to do. That being said, this is what Antonin is shouting during that part:
> 
> "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you until the end of time. I want to kidnap you. I want to claim you, forever. I want to take you back to Siberia and hide you away where no other lesser man can behold you for as long as you live. Every time I see that fucking scar I gave you it makes me proud because it means you are mine, and you have been mine, ever since you were a girl. I will never marry unless it is you who takes my name. I will never have children unless it is you who bears them. I will accept nothing less than you. And whatever you decide to do six months from now, I will love you until they put my cold dead body underground."
> 
> • New Russian phrases: Ya zabyl = "I forgot"; izvini = "sorry"
> 
> • I don't mean for this to sound passive-aggressive at all, and it's difficult sometimes to convey tone through this medium, wherein you cannot see my facial expression or hear my voice. I frequently see fanfiction authors who get egregiously farklempt about reader criticism and don't want you to think that's the vibe in this note. This is more just me reminding you, as an appreciated viewer, of what you're getting into here – so that no one gets disappointed. 
> 
> There is a descriptor of "Canon-Divergent" in the initial summary of this story, so I just wanted to re-state, for the record, that this story is VERY MUCH NON-CANON. There are several elements that I am deliberately changing from the original source material. When you see these instances, they are, most likely, items I have intentionally altered in order to better fit the narrative I wish to convey. If that is an issue for you, as much as I'd hate to lose you, you may want to stop reading. However, to me, this is one of the blessings of the fanfiction medium – the ability to put our own spin on the stories, characters, and settings that we so enormously love. For those who can accept this, thank you for sticking around.
> 
> • Allright, you've been asking for it, so – in tomorrow's chapter – you're getting it. Full-on smut. Dark Daddy Dolohov's POV. It's coming. No cutaways, no temporal ellipses. The spice has arrived. Get some popcorn.
> 
> • I hope you all are having a superb weekend! You will NEVER KNOW how much your support means to me!!!


	19. "I Warned You"

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In less than three seconds, Antonin Dolohov, with no more cause to stifle his need, used his wand to dissipate the bonds restraining his witch, hauled her up out of his antique chair by her armpits – ignoring her squeak of protest – and then, in one clean rip, tore her pretty pink dress in half, from her cleavage right down the middle.

“Dolohov!” she shrieked, trying to seem angry but – thanks to the serum – grinning.

Eager beyond the scope of all human language, he pulled her violently to his chest, moving aside her jasmine-scented hair and savaging her neck with frantic bites while her adept hands unzipped his black slacks, letting them pool at his feet. He kicked them away as he muttered in her ear, “I will buy you thousand pretty little dresses, _krasavitsa_. But we will only have _one_ first time together – and I mean to make it memorable.” 

He heard her sigh in response – high-pitched, even destitute – and looked down, then, to survey the parts of her body too long obscured from his sight: her breasts, peeking above a bra of lilac lace, and her creamy white skin, interrupted all the way down the center by his purple mark, which made for a clear path – an arrow leading all the way to...

His brows furrowed.

“Where are your knickers?” he asked.

She smiled up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, as she ran her errant fingers over his chest.

“I arrived exactly as you dismissed me last time... _sir_.”

He blinked, his jaw dropping as she giggled.

_Klyanus' Bogom – she might be almost as perverse as I am._

“You really _were_ made for me,” he whispered, as much in adoration as in lust, as he picked her up and deposited her on his desk. With chaotic haste, he magicked the contract, quills, ink, and jewelry into the drawer, dropping his wand next to the lamp before placing both his hands where they belonged – all over her body. In one vicious gesture he had unclasped her lavender bra and thrown it all the way across the room.

 _Fuck that piece of clothing in particular_ , he mused. 

Now – _finally_ , he thought – Hermione Granger, so long his sole object, was completely naked. She had signed the paper; there was no one else in the apartment; and she sat here panting on his desk, her whiskey-colored eyes gazing up into his, without a stitch of clothing. She knew who he was now, and yet she had still made this choice.

There were no more barriers between them. And the animal within Antonin, sensing that the paddock gates were thrown open, could no longer be held back.

Hermione leaned into his feral attentions, mewling with abandon as he ravaged her breasts with his mouth, sucking the nipples until they were firm, and ran his fingers over her thighs, her hips, her back, and her stomach, carefully noting each reaction.

“I’m,” she said, in between sucking in manic puffs of oxygen, “Ahhh! I'm terribly – sorry, Dolohov – I – _fuuuck_ – it’s so embarrassing. I just can’t – stop – with the – noises – ”

“Why do you…think I…dosed you, _lyubimaya_?,” he whispered, in between rapid, affectionate kisses, his lips flickering all the way up from one breast to her earlobe, while he held the other breast securely in his right hand. “I want to take you…while you cannot hide from me. I want to read your body…like a map,” he said, relishing the moan that came from her lips as he massaged her, “to commit…every little spot – ”

“Morgan help me!!!” she called, as he bit her earlobe.

“And, every little ridge, and every little hill, to memory – ”

He squeezed the breast harder – _perhaps too hard?_ , he wondered. But she threw her head back and screamed through gritted teeth, gripping the edge of the desk. It was a beautiful sound, full of rage as much as desire, and he savored it like wine.

“ – to learn what my touch does to you,” he hissed, grabbing her hair, tight as salvation, and forcing her to look at him. “No more hiding your pleasure from me, _krasavitsa_ , not like yesterday. Tonight, fall apart for me, my good girl – my _brave_ girl.”

Hermione gazed at him, blinking, in utter helplessness, struggling to breathe from the power of the magic, the palpable tension, the vibrations of downright incendiary attraction passing between them like cannon fire, and he could not have stopped himself from kissing her then even if he had wanted to – not for a million rubles. Keeping his grip on her hair, he claimed her lips like a conquistador, reserving that territory for the glory of his own nation, forevermore, damning anyone who would stand in his way. With the serum having stripped any sense of decorum from his proper, prudent woman of his, her mouth was needy, even ferocious now, pushing him deeper into his own hysteria as he shoved her further back on the desk, nipping her with a growl. There was no music he loved more than the harmony of their guttural moans in moments like these, while their tongues fought for dominance. 

Antonin smiled against her mouth as he felt her, suddenly, reaching down to palm his balls through his boxers. 

“Feisty thing,” he chided, breaking away, his eyes still closed, as she whined from the absence of his lips. When he opened his eyes, enjoying the feel of her hand moving underneath his fullness, she looked dizzy and debauched even without being wrecked by his cock yet. An unholy part of him looked forward to watching the shock bloom on her face when she caught sight of what awaited her beneath his underwear – when she registered the size of what would be invading her. He felt… _tender_ towards her then, _almost_ sorry – but not quite – for the impending devastation. He looped his arms around her in a hug while gently rubbing his nose back and forth across her own.

“You have no idea, my _L’venok_ , how long I have ached for this,” he confided, placing a softer kiss on her lips. “You cannot how every inch of me craves every inch of you.”

“Well,” she whispered, with a devilish smirk, “I have not yet _seen_ every inch of you, Mr. Dolohov.” And she reached through the slit in his boxers to grab his neglected shaft.

“FUCK!” he roared, turning his head to the side. “ _Cuchka derganaya_ …”

This was not how he had planned it, looking right into her smug expression as she massaged his balls with one hand and performed gentle twists on his cock with the other. Now she was the one who had taken _him_ by surprise, and – having imbibed the serum himself – he could not withhold the ribald groan from his own mouth as he threw back his head and stared at the ceiling. It was too good, too much, after too long, he realized, running his fingers through his hair in frustration – literal _years_ it had been, since _anyone_ had touched him there. Once he had become Putorana, he had stayed as celibate as a monk; nothing except this witch had seemed acceptable to him. And now he was ridiculously sensitive, every nerve tingling under her wicked manipulations.

But he was glad he waited. He would not have done otherwise, especially not now.

Recovering quickly from her having pushed him off his equilibrium, needing to regain a sense of control, he swiftly reached his hand up around her precious little throat.

“Hermione Granger. I _warned_ you, not an hour ago, to stop _playing_ with me,” Antonin growled, squinting at this vixen with all the poison he could muster. 

In answer, she simply smiled and squeezed him harder.

“Allright you little slut, fine, you know what?,” he hissed, pointing his index finger in her face. “For that, I’m skipping foreplay. Okay, actually, FUCK THIS FUCKING TRUTH SERUM, that’s a lie, _ponimayesh_ '? That was an excuse just now,” he said, bringing the other hand up around her throat as well, but applying no pressure – not yet. 

“I am skipping it because, after all these lost, forsaken years of waiting, I cannot wait even _one more second_ before impaling you. _That’s_ the truth.”

And then the brazen Gryffindor bitch had the _audacity_ to laugh at him. 

No one in the world had the power to make him this hard – or this incensed.

“Oh _shut the fuck up_ , you goddamned insolent whore of mine…”

He stoppered the infernal cackling from her too-smart mouth with a searing kiss, bringing forth a muffled banshee wail when, in retribution, he savagely slid two fingers inside her cunt. Pulling away, he stared her down with his fingers still inside her heaven as he said, “Not that you needed the foreplay, anyway – as wet as you are for me.”

She could not deny it, even if she hadn’t been dosed – the evidence was on his hand, which he licked, shamelessly, right in front of her, not breaking eye contact for a second.

“FFUUUUUCCKKK!” she caterwauled, reaching her arms around his shoulders. 

“ _Please_ , Dolohov!” was the only sentient phrase her brain could form. 

And it was enough.

Wandlessly vanishing his own boxers and securing her legs around his waist, just as they’d been up against the pillar at the party, he surged forward to assault her mouth again, loving the wild, resplendent sounds she made as they reverberated through his chest. He lifted her with a Neanderthal grunt and endeavored to maneuver them towards his bedroom without dropping her or breaking the kiss; her lips felt like a lifeline, like a regulator, something he could not risk losing while submerged in this murky ocean of unbridled lust. It seemed that if he stopped kissing her, he would simply expire. Walking, snogging, holding up her body with his eyes closed, he could feel her tits rubbing against his chest and the droplet of precum that was leaking out of him as his cock ground against her, begging to be admitted entrance. All he could think as he squeezed her body and stumbled forward blindly was _ty mne nuzhen, ty mne nuzhen, ty mne nuzhen, Mne nuzhno, chtoby ty razvalilsya v moikh ob”yatiyakh_ – and he was confident, listening to her ecstatic whimpers, that she would.

But where Antonin had been _overly_ confident was in his navigational abilities. Amidst the mayhem of their twisting tongues and groping fingers, he had somehow missed the target entirely and slammed her up against one of the glass windows in his _living room._

… _pizdets._

It would have to do. He had to be inside her. _Now._

It was she, her back splattered against the cold glass, who broke their kiss this time, keening in a panic, “Dolohov! The…windows…the people down in the street!”

“They can’t see you. It’s tinted,” he assured her, sliding his fingers all the way up her scar, eliciting another lascivious whine which, try as she might, she could not conceal. Pinning her without mercy against the cool surface, he hoisted her up, took his cock in one hand, and lined it up with her sweet, waiting cunt. She looked down, looked back up at him, and bit her lip, her eyes large – both desirous and worried, just as he’d wished. (He hadn’t thought it was possible for his dick to get any harder, but, seeing her genuine want blended with her delicious fear of him in that instant, he realized he had been wrong.)

“And even if they could,” he growled, “I wouldn’t fucking care.”

 _Zapomni eto_ , Antonin, he told himself, as he stared unceasingly into her beautiful, shocked face and pushed, inch by ungodly inch, inside her perfect heat. 

She arched her back and screamed then, as if he was killing her, as if she writhed inside an iron maiden. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. It set his blood on fire.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I just can’t stop it’s too fucking good Dolohov BLOODY HELL – ”

But Antonin was no more controlled than she was. He – a reprobate, a murderer, a heartless bastard, raised in one of the coldest climes on earth – actually gasped out loud, sucking in air like a drowning man and digging his fingers into her supple skin. He lacked the facilities to even process how fucking sublime it was. His cock plumbed deeper and deeper, bit by bit, his progress tantalizingly slowed by the walls of the tightest pussy he’d ever had the fortune to visit. He had gotten an idea of it when he’d touched her, but nothing had prepared him for this. She was impossibly superb. He did not even know a woman could feel like this. (It was a far cry from the death eater slags.)

“Are you…allright?” she asked, in a high frail voice, his sweet one, his _milaya_ , actually worried – even as she was being split open – about a villain like him. 

_This is the type of witch you give your name to_ , he thought, smiling, panting. 

And, by all the spires of the Kremlin, he knew he would do all he could to make it so.

“More than allright, _krasavitsa_. I am, for once –

He made one last push inside her, bottoming out, reaching the end as she moaned.

“ – complete.”

The moaning still came from her mouth like a siren’s song as he kissed her forehead, praising her in devoted whispers that, in her hysteria, he was not even sure she heard. 

“Good girl, _such_ a good girl, taking my cock so well, so tight for me, so perfect – ”

He pulled almost all the way out of her and then, swift and barbaric, pushed back inside of her in one vicious thrust, savoring her uncontrollable screams.

“Do you remember your safe word, _lyubimaya?_ ” he asked, leaning next to her ear, still buried to the hilt in their torrid consummation.

“The – the – the cat,” she stammered.

“My _umnitsa_ , such an ironclad memory, even when I tear her to pieces – ”

“More, more _please_ , I can take it, I’m ready Dolohov, I won’t hide it this time, I promise – ”

“Oh,” he uttered, laughing darkly. “I _know_ you won’t, Hermione.”

Antonin started fucking her then without benevolence, shoving her pliant flesh up against the cool window, grasping her thighs in his hands, grunting with each thrust, realizing in a distant, reflective part of his mind – as he kissed her again, savoring the taste of her screams – that his life had never been better than it was in this moment. 

“Mmmhmnfnmfmuck!” she cried, her nascent utterance aborted by his lips and tongue.

As he broke their kiss, he smiled at the disheveled, moaning tzarina before him, still somehow regal despite the rhythmic corruption of his throbbing cock. Her hair was flying around, askew, and as her eyes glistened wildly at him he remembered something, albeit paraphrased, from his childhood – “ _beware, beware, her flashing eyes, her floating hair! Weave a circle round her thrice and close your eyes with holy dread_ ” – because she had never looked more puissant in her power than she did right there, slammed up against the glass, owning him. She was a true witch – no matter her birth – smiling right back even as he destroyed her, confident that she was doing the same to him. If there was a “ _milk of paradise_ ,” this was it – and he would never get enough of it.

“This…too…good…to…be…LEGAL!!!!” she wailed, in between brutal thrusts.

 _Moy bog_ , she was loud. He relished it, her loss of composure, and his own. He doubted he would have fully functioning eardrums tomorrow and, as he drove into her over and over, chasing their pleasure, he could not find it within himself to care.

“ _Ya zastavlyu…yebya polyubit' menya…krasavitsa,_ ” he rasped, grinning from ear to ear. He wanted to look menacing, but he could not help it – this was happiness, here, in front of him, pulsing all around him, wrapping him in a warmth he never wanted to leave.

He knew he had not lied – he _couldn’t_ have lied if he’d wanted to – about the window being tinted. No one could see them. But as the pace of his thrusting and the mania of her shrieking increased, he entertained the idea, the fantasy, of the tint _not_ existing, of railing her openly for all to see – of a world in which he no longer had to hide his name and face. To kiss in the sunlight, to fuck in the moonlight, to not give a damn, to say, like a caveman, _this woman is mine, and I dare you to try to take her from me now._

“Dolo – Dol – _Dah!!!_ ” she keened, the required three syllables too much for her.

Feeling the sumptuous bounce of her tits and needing, desperately, to claim her in the most base, heathen way, he realized – with a jolt – that he did not have long before he would explode. He’d wanted to impress her, to pull off some uber–masculine hours-long feat of fuckery, but it was all too much for him to bear, and he could feel a heavenly tightness building, coiling within his loins. If he was going to cum – and as much as he had wished to hold off longer, he _wanted_ to cum, badly, to empty himself inside her, for more reasons than he could count – it was imperative that she be right there with him. 

He shifted her weight, such as it was (his little bird, his _kroshka_ , he thought lovingly) to his other arm and his rocking pelvis while reaching down low between their friction and searching, diligent as a scribe, for the instrument that would illuminate her glory. 

Soon, her walls squeezed him and her splendid treacle-tinted eyes went wide.

“Oh you magnificent _DEMON!!!_ ” she shrieked, half thrilled, half-accusing.

 _Ah_. There it was. 

He heightened his attentions to the spot he’d found while pushing harder and faster into the tightness of her core. The end was coming soon for both of them now. His witch was whining, her face angled upward, whimpering like his own Mishka when she sat in cars with him on their adventures, her head hanging out the window, and _knew_ , with some evolved canine sensitivity, that they were *almost* to their destination. His witch, likewise, was *almost there.* She dug her fingernails into his back, scratching his shoulder blades, and he hoped with all his heart that she had drawn blood.

“ _Izvinite_ ,” he grunted. “I…wanted this to last longer, but – _blyat_ – I cannot…stop…”

“I don’t _fucking want you to_!” she shouted. “Don’t you _dare_ stop until – ”

And then, with one last primal scream from her exquisite throat, he sensed her tightening around him, and it was _happening_ – he was pouring all of himself into her, in hot, vicious gouts, everything he had held back for years, everything he’d wanted her to feel and know and everything he didn’t, every piece of abandonment, isolation, misery, bitterness, cruelty, longing, _love_ , his body speaking all he could not say. 

The untamed roar that he heard in that moment did not even seem to come from his own mouth, but from a creature he had not let loose in aeons.

Antonin claimed her soft, swollen lips one final time and kissed her, in adoration and mania, as they both rode out their ecstasy together – losing track of time, breath, being.

As he felt himself return to the land of the living from that nameless, post-coital, astral plane which could only be reached with a woman like her, he realized that the goddess he had splattered against the glass was now collapsed upon him like a ragdoll, her head lolled on his shoulder, her arms dangling down over his back. 

His legs had just barely enough strength to carry her, after his cock slipped out of her warmth, into his bedroom, where he mumbled one wandless cleaning spell before they both toppled – like helpless, felled trees – into the cotton embrace of his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: Cuchka derganaya = "crazy bitch"; ty mne nuzhen, ty mne nuzhen, ty mne nuzhen, Mne nuzhno, chtoby ty razvalilsya v moikh ob”yatiyakh = "I need you, I need you, I need you to fall to pieces in my arms"; Zapomni eto = "remember this"; Ya zastavlyu…yebya polyubit' menya = "I'm going to make you fall in love with me"; kroshka = "crumb"; milaya = "my sweet"
> 
> • The poem Antonin remembers when he is making love to Hermione is "Kubla Khan" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
> 
> • I hope this isn't a problem, but the next three chapters are all Antonin POVs; that's just kind of how it needed to be for the story. (Some of you might get bored with that, but on the other hand some other readers that I know might like it.)
> 
> • Do not fear – there is much, much more spice to come in these pages. But, for the next chapter, *plot.* And lots of cuddles.


	20. "A Woman So Fierce in the World"

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“What is ‘ _lyubimila_ ’?” asked Hermione, splayed across Antonin’s white, puffy comforter and extra-large pillows – still naked from head to toe, resplendent and odalisque.

Gazing up at her, in all her uncovered beauty, made him wish that he knew how to paint.

“Hmmm?” he returned, rather occupied. He was currently kissing a delicate, methodical path up from her adorable toes and intended to traverse the entire length of her body. He had found that, despite finally having claimed her, he did not want to _stop_ kissing her, almost as if he was under some kind of compulsion. His lioness, smiling, giggling, yawning, and occasionally stretching, did not seem to mind. 

It was, probably, somewhere around three in the morning. They had both passed out for a long while, but had mutually awoken a few minutes before, perhaps both too excited by the new, divergent path their lives had taken to linger in indolent sleep.

Personally, Antonin was hoping for a second round before she inevitably slunk back to her ragged shack of an apartment. She did not know he had seen it, but, of course, he had his ways. If he had his druthers, she would never leave this bed again.

“‘ _Lyubimila_ ,’” she repeated. “What does it mean?”

_Damn her dogged memory_ , he lamented.

“You said it to me twice, last night.”

Remaining silent, as if she had not spoken, he proceeded to massage her calf muscle and kiss his way up her shin, contemplating his answer – or lack thereof. 

Antonin had meant it, with all of whatever was left of his heart, when he said it: 

_Lyubimila_. It meant “beloved”. 

And that’s precisely what she was.

He had meant every single word he had uttered under the thrall of the veritaserum, as well, which, luckily, was no longer affecting either of them. 

But there was something within him, some kind of resolute, intractable wall, which blocked him from outright saying, in English, “ _I love you.”_

It was silly, he knew – he had all _but_ stated it to her. What was the phrase, from that silly novel Narcissa had adored when she was a girl? “ _It was every day implied, but never declared._ ” Yes. Exactly so. He could not declare it. In case, he thought, kissing her knee and moving upwards…in case, at the end of this blessed six months, she left him. There had to be one small, intransigent part of himself he had not given away.

But, deeper than that, he was afraid – not only of the possibility of her eventual departure but of how she would react if he ever said it. He could not bear it when, inevitably, she did not return the intensity of his own feelings, despite all the efforts he was planning during this season of the contract in order to engender them within her.

“Dolohov,” she said, attempting to adopt an accent akin to McGonagall, the old harpy, now dead. “I am _not amused_. You are withholding information from me.”

His lips traveling up her thigh, he looked up at her and raised one eyebrow. 

“You know I can simply look it up tomorrow,” she deadpanned.

“NO!” he bellowed, in unmanly panic, gripping both of her legs. “DON’T LOOK IT UP!”

She shook with raucous laughter.

“Allright allright, bumbling Bertie Botts beans!” she wheezed. “Do not be troubled. The time of the truth serum has passed. You can keep this one secret, I suppose.”

Bestowing a rich, springtime smile upon him, showing her pretty white teeth and easing his irrational spike of anxiety in less than a second, she reached her hands down to scratch her fingernails across and around his scalp in wiggling, repetitive patterns. 

“HHHnnnggghhh,” he could not restrain himself from uttering. “What witchery is this?”

“A scalp massage? Do you not like it?”

“‘Like’ is not strong enough of a word,” he growled, raising his head, encouraging her to increase the pressure of her fingers. “Please incorporate this into our after-sex routine.”

She laughed again, but nodded. “Of course. I can’t believe no one has done this to you.”

There was probably a great deal about his life, and his loneliness, and his lack of affection, that his witch would have a hard time believing, but he did not want to make her sad then – especially because it meant she would stop the “scalp massage.”

In between placing reverent, almost pious kisses all the way up the road his purple whip curse had carved into her flesh, he mumbled, “I have wondered…if you know…what seeing this on you…does to me. That first…night, five…five days ago now? When… _mmm_ ,” he intoned, reaching her belly button, resulting in a high-pitched titter from above. 

“That tickles!” she yelped with a laugh, wiggling a little, but unable to escape his grasp.

“When Thorfinn,” he continued, his assault of loving pecks unceasing, “first spun you around…on the dance floor…and I caught…a glimpse of it,” he said, scooting himself upwards with no preamble and plopping himself on top of her body, touching his hands to both of her breasts. “Between these gorgeous fucking…tits of yours,” he said, planting one last kiss in between them, “I was hard enough to crack a diamond.”

She had not stopped chuckling during this entire attack, and she suddenly lifted her hands – much to his regret – to cover her incredulous, blushing face. 

“You were _watching_ me – and you got an _erection_ from the scar that _you gave me_?”

“Why shouldn’t I have?” he probed, sliding over to the side of her and propping himself up on another pillow, but keeping one arm draped around her waist.

“Because it’s UGLY! Most of the others despised it. With Ron I even had to wear lingerie to cover it most of the time, or use makeup, which inevitably smeared everywhere – ”

“As we have discussed,” he drawled. “You? PEARL. Weasely? SWINE.” 

He gently traced his fingers up and down the aubergine indentation as she sighed.

“But, to me, _krasavitsa_ , this is a badge of honor, like a medal, almost. This shows how _strong_ you are. You should always be proud. This…is like…purple ink…like, calligraphy that writes a thrilling story on your lovely skin, to everyone, of how you fought one of the most wicked, horrendous death eaters to ever breathe, and _survived_ him – endured his foolish wrath at being bested by a teenager, utterly unrestricted, and lived to tell the tale. You are the only one who did – not just the only female. The only human being _at all_.”

She moved one of her hands to squint her precious toffee-colored eye at him.

“So, yes, _L’venok_ – it stirs me to see this. To know there is a woman so fierce in the world.” 

_And, moreover_ , he thought, smiling insolently, _to know that you were marked as my witch, my wife, mine – and always will be, no matter what you decide to do in June._

He had deemed it better to leave that part unsaid.

She shook her head, with a strange little snort, but she was still smiling.

“Dolohov…this is… _So. Fucked. Up.”_

_Oh, Milaya_ , he thought. _You still have no idea._

He became distracted, though, when he saw the inside of the forearm that she was still using to cover her face. Reaching up, in a flash of his old wartime alacrity, to grasp her delicate wrist before she could evade him, he extended the arm and leaned across her torso to get a better look. She attempted to resist, trying to pull it away, to hide it from his sight, squeaking his surname in irritation. She was embarrassed by the angry letters carved into her flesh – but it was nothing he had not already known about. 

He raised the faded but still savage scars to his lips and kissed them, shocking his witch into silence, staring at the jaggedly scrawled “mudblood” and shaking his head.

“This…this was covered at the party. But I wondered if it was likely still there.”

“Yes,” she said, simply lowering her arm. She shifted the pillows and sat up, pointedly not looking at him. He had vexed her, he could see, from the vehemence of her movements, the set of her mouth, and the avoidance of his gaze. 

“Narcissa knew a glamour to erase it for about twelve hours, but, with everything that’s happened, she has not had time to teach it to me.”

“You need no such erasure around me, _krasavitsa,_ ” he assured her.

He, still every bit as naked as she was, sat up on the bed, as well. Although rigid, she allowed him to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to him. Even after all their exertions, he could still catch the scent of jasmine from her shampoo. 

“You know,” he whispered, pointing to her arm. “I almost killed Lucius for that.”

“Why?” She asked. “He was just as much a prisoner as I was then.”

“As we all were,” he said, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Or most of us. But…I could not believe he would let them do _this_ to you, all of the torture you suffered – not just the scar, yes, I was told the rest of it – in his own home. After all of my warnings.”

She relented a bit then, relaxing her muscles and leaning her head on his shoulder. He squeezed his witch more tightly and inwardly cheered at the small victory.

“It seems like you should have wanted to kill _Bellatrix_ ,” she stated, glumly.

“Oh. I did,” he clarified, tangling his feet with her own. “I broke both of her legs.”

“ _What???_ ” she yelled, bouncing to the other side of the bed like a bunny, so that she could more easily stare him in the face – her surprise, and delight, apparent.

He could not help but chortle.

“Are you serious?” she squealed, her hands on her knees, rapt with anticipation.

“Oh yes,” he replied, grinning. “Clean across the tibia. Both of them. _BLOOP!,_ ” he uttered, enacting a horizontal slashing motion with an imaginary wand. “You should’ve seen her fall – _priyatnym_ , very satisfying crunch to it. _Conscidisti pedes_ spell.”

It gave him enormous, almost wholesome pleasure to see how large her eyes had gotten.

“What…what happened after that?” she breathed, her elation undeniable.

“Well, Riddle fixed it, of course – couldn’t have his lady hobbled – so she wasn’t like that for very long. And I got demoted for it, not that I cared at that point. But you know how it is, with breaks. It never heals back the same, even with magic. You could just barely notice it in the way she walked afterwards, a difference, a persistent soreness that gave her gait an erratic quality. I drew a certain contentment from that. I would’ve done more to her, though, if Riddle hadn’t walked in on me. Honestly. When they told me what happened, I just ‘saw red,’ as you say. Or did I get it wrong again? Is it ‘I saw blue’? I sometimes still get mixed up with color metaphors – ”

Before Antonin could finish his sentence, Hermione had launched herself across the bed to tackle him in a wild, enthusiastic embrace which Thorfinn often referred to as a “glomp.” He drew in a deep breath of fulfillment, wrapping his own arms around her back, his hands grasping her waist, wishing he had the right words in any language to encapsulate how happy she made him, even in these small, extemporaneous gestures. 

“Dolohov, that is horrifying, brutally violent, and – without a doubt – the nicest thing that anyone has _ever_ done for me,” she whispered into his ear.

Straddling his lap, she sat up straight to look him in the face, her hands on his shoulders. He tried to return her earnest, sweet expression, but was somewhat diverted by the rushing of blood to his cock that occurred upon imagining the possibility of his powerful, luscious witch riding him into the sunrise.

“What can I do to make it up to you?” she asked.

It was the sort of question which could have been sexual, but also not.

He sighed, because what he wanted most of all right then was not actually from her body.

Keeping his hands gripping her hips, he requested, a little timidly, “It would make it up to me, actually…if you could call me by my given name from now on.”

This seemed to surprise her, but not, necessarily, to displease her.

“It’s just that…Dolohov is my death eater name, and every time you say it, it…it feels like a way to keep me at a distance, somehow. And I don’t want…the distance,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling stupid and meager and no longer like a force to be reckoned with. 

But, unaffected, she reached out and cupped his face in her hands, rubbing his beard.

“Antonin?”

She’d gotten it right on the first try. 

“Mmmmmm,” he hummed, tasting the sound of it, letting it roll around in his skull.

“Antonin,” she said again, more sure this time. 

He could not help himself then. He grabbed her hand, dug his other fingers into her hips, and in one smooth, fast movement, flipped them both over to where she was on her back, sinking into the bed, and he was laying on top of her, smiling diabolically. 

“Eep!” she yelped, with an impish grin. 

“Say it again,” he growled, interlocking his fingers with hers and pressing her hand into the pillow. He ground himself against her with a hiss, advertising his fresh need. 

“ _Aahnntonin_ ,” she breathed, ruffled by the feel of his hardness against her clit.

“ _Khristos Imperator_ ,” he rasped. “How I have _ached_ to hear you speak my name.”

“How would you like to hear me scream it, then?” the fearless, impudent witch asked, smirking, opening up her legs for him without an atom of shame.

_She is already mine. Irrevocably mine._

“ _Blyat_ ,” he uttered, leaning down to kiss her – slowly, this time, tenderly, his lips a contrast with the iron push of his thick, unyielding tip as he nudged it into her tight opening –

– and then a voice came over the loudspeaker into his apartment.

“Boss, I’m sorry to wake you, but…we’ve got a situation down in the lab.”

Goyle.

_Goyle._

It was always fucking GOYLE.

He saw the shock and disappointment flit across her features as he removed the half of his girth he’d shoved inside her, his entire body now suffused with pure, high-octane rage. He got out of bed, standing and stomping into the living room to access the button for the Intercom system, pushing aside the antique photo of the Nenets camp.

“GRISCHA,” he called back, with a booming voice loud enough to reach all seven circles of hell. “I am SURE…this can WAIT…until TOMORROW!!!!”

“Sir, it’s just that you directed me, sir, if anything ever happened, sir, to tell you before the aurors were called, and to not touch anything until you came to see it, sir – ”

“It is THREE A.M.,” he bellowed, “and there is a LADY IN MY APARTMENT. Why is this something which you are NOT CAPABLE OF DEALING WITH BY YOUR – ”

“Boss, it’s bad – it’s bad bloody business,” he returned, obviously shaken. “There’s been a break-in, it’s a right mess, and Wulfram – well, they did something to Wulfram.”

Antonin pinched the bridge of his nose, sucking in air through his teeth.

“Stay right there, Grischa,” he grumbled. 

Making his indignant way back into the bedroom, he grabbed his red flannel, sherpa-lined robe from the inside of his closet, quickly shimmied into it, tied the belt, and shuffled into his houseshoes. He approached a completely bewildered, blinking Hermione, who had, perhaps in fear of someone entering the apartment, snuggled under the covers and pulled them up to her chest. He sat on the bed with a sigh.

“That’s it. I’m killing him.”

He tented his fingers and attempted to take deep breaths. It did not do anything to lessen his overwhelming desire to eliminate Goyle from the face of the planet.

“Will…will you be allright?” she asked, her genuine concern melting him a little.

He leaned in to nuzzle her nose, lightly kissing her lips.

“I will be just fine, but I have _no idea_ what the hell is happening down there, so, please, for the love of all things alchemical, do not leave this apartment yet. I will be back. In the mean time, I have you fresh-squeezed orange juice and a selection of pastries from Bathilda’s Bakery in the refrigerator and the pantry, respectively.”

She touched her fingers to her chest in a gesture of surprise and appreciation.

“You knew I would stay the night?”

He shrugged, reaching out to run his left hand through her sex-tousled hair.

“ _Dum spiro, spero_ ,” he recited, winking at her before standing, leaving the bedroom, pulling the wand out of his study, and advancing with holy, righteous wrath to confront Gregory Goyle, who sat helplessly waiting on the rolling stool outside his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to mention this first and foremost so as to be up front with everyone. The update schedule, **just for the next few weeks**, is going to change. It makes me feel physically sick to type this out because making you happy over these last couple of weeks has been my main source of serotonin. However, as you might have gathered by this point, I am a professor, and I'm about to receive a huge chunk of difficult-to-grade literary analysis essays which, based on what happened last semester, will probably be horrid in the extreme. This is not, strictly speaking, wholly the fault of the students, as the courses I teach do not transfer well to an online environment, but the grading will be labor intensive and – as this is the job that pays my bills – I must give it my all. I will STILL BE WRITING EVERY DAY. I would, in fact, go insane if I did *not* write every day. Also, I will update you as to my progress and keep you posted as to when every-other-day or daily updates might resume. Thus, here is the new schedule:
> 
> For the time being, **this story will update twice weekly, on Mondays and Thursdays.** 
> 
> I don't want to lose ANY OF YOU as readers and promise you, on my honor, that this entire story is plotted out. I desperately do not want you to think this will be yet another one of the thousand fanfics that never gets finished. Stay with me, friends, and I promise you an "HEA."
> 
> Also, I am in no way meaning to denigrate the struggles of my own students, most of whom are forced to take my class when all they really want to do is get, for instance, their nursing degree and move on with their lives. Trust me – I get it. (But if any of my students somehow find this – what are you doing reading Harry Potter erotica, anyway?)
> 
> As for the rest of the notes:
> 
> • Dum spiro, spero in Latin means "while I breathe, I hope."
> 
> • "It was every day implied, but never declared" is from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. (ArdentlyAdmired, I bet you picked up on this one without the author's note!)
> 
> • New Russian phrases: priyatnym = "pleasant" or "pleasing"; Kristos Imperator is just "Christ the Emperor", another of his creative blasphemies, which his babushka would smack him for
> 
> • PRAYERS FOR GREGORY Y'ALL
> 
> • I am aware that the "mudblood" scar on Hermione's arm is not mentioned in the books; I liked that addition to the films, though, so I deliberately used it for this story.
> 
> • What has happened down in the lab? Will Wulfram survive? Will GOYLE survive? All will be revealed in the next thrilling episode of...THE OTTER AND THE BEAR! 
> 
> (And yes, the smut will return – next Monday – with bells on.)


	21. "Mass of Black Smoke"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Note: There is some past sexual abuse referenced in this chapter, VERY BRIEFLY, in regard to Antonin (not something he did, but something he was forced to experience). It's only a couple of sentences, blink-and-you-miss-it, but I did *not* want that to come as a surprise to anyone.

<> <> <> <> <>

Incensed beyond all scope of time and space, Antonin Dolohov swung open the door of his apartment to cast his fiery, Sauronic gaze upon the withering, horrified frame of Gregory Goyle – perched on the rolling stool, inching backwards from the sheer, unspoken wrath. 

“Grisha,” he growled, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him, trying to look as imposing as possible despite the fuzzy house slippers. 

The younger man stood up, eyes wide, clearly doing his best not to shiver.

“After your _incident_ a couple of days ago – your utter inability to follow basic _directions_ in regard to the conveyance of Miss Granger up to my apartment – your position at this company is hanging by a thread, and the _only_ reason that thread even still hangs at all is due to the saccharine, stupid loyalty I feel to your father – ”

“You knew my father?” Goyle interrupted, his jaw almost to the floor.

Antonin blinked, his rage replaced by stabbing, serrated fear.

_Shit._

_Shit, fuck, cunt, zhopoliz._

The woman had drained his brains as well as his balls.

Antonin had lied to Hermione, before, when she had asked about his previous interactions with Goyle. He was not sure why. The truth was that, during one of Goyle’s first nights on staff, almost two years before, Antonin had made sure to discreetly sneak up behind him like some sort of demented Looney Toons character and, with the careful precision of a surgeon, remove his memories of what Antonin had looked like in the olden days – when he had often seen the boy sitting, lonely, wiggling his little legs in the corridors after death eater meetings, and discreetly snuck him pieces of Russian candy. Little Grischa, as he called him, had been some kind of backalley byblow on Goyle Sr.’s part, with no mother in his life to speak of, and Goyle Sr. himself was gone almost constantly on various missions for Riddle. Therefore, Antonin had cultivated something of a begrudging affection for the child.

Orphans. His weak spot.

Which lead him to the situation he was in now.

He knew Grischa didn’t remember his face, but he _had_ to be more careful than this.

Trying to recover quickly, and placing a paternal but firm hand on Goyle’s shoulder, he murmured, “Yes, I did, Grischa, but…that’s a story for another time. You need to take me _right now_ down to the lab and show me whatever has happened, and you had better damn well pray that it was important enough to have disturbed me tonight.”

“It – it is, sir,” he stammered, seeming, despite his height, like that same little boy he’d once known. “I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise,” he stated, turning to walk towards the elevator. Antonin followed, tightening the belt on his flannel robe.

“Especially,” he mumbled, as they both stepped in and Antonin pushed the button for the floor where the lab was, “with…her in there. Congratulations, by the way. Sir.”

“Do you think I require your congratulations for actually managing to secure a female in my quarters, Goyle?” he barked, rubbing his temples as the elevator descended.

“No! No sir. That’s – not – it’s just – well – she’s always been brainy, and a right pretty one, isn’t she? Still remember what she looked like at that one Yule Ball with Krum – ”

As Goyle turned to look at him, Antonin, speaking not a word, fixed him with a flat-eyed glare that probably would have made some men piss their pants. To Goyle’s credit, as the doors opened again, he simply muttered another apology and lead the way to the lab.

As Goyle opened the double-doors for him, Antonin had to restrain himself from cursing at the sight before him. One of the wide glass windows was completely shattered, letting in the cold December breeze; shards were scattered everywhere on the tables, islands, and tile floors. There had not been alarms set to the windows, Antonin remembered suddenly. In their cocksure foolishness, when they first set up the security for the building, they had never imagined someone entering that way.

Casting his sharp eyes across the remainder of the room, he noted that various papers, beakers, burners, and ingredient canisters were broken or scattered all across the room. It was only a few seconds later that he observed Wulfram Reed, massive and shaggy-headed, who was stiff as a board, prone on the ground in the corner.

_Pizdets_ , he found himself thinking, for the second time in twelve hours, rushing to the man’s side and getting on his knees, running some diagnostic spells with his wand. 

He breathed in a sigh of relief, looking to a slightly shaking Goyle. 

“It’s just _petrificus totalus_ ,” he said, careful not to move his wand as he said it. “He’ll be fine,” he declared, whispering the reversal spell over his body in the next instant.

In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Reed was sitting up, taking in huge gulps of air, grabbing Antonin’s arm as if it was a lifesaving rope dangling off of a cliff.

“Boss, boss, boss, I’m – ”

“ _Uspoykoysya_ – calm down, Reed. Reed, you’re allright – WULFRAM!” he shouted, shaking the man as he trembled. “It’s allright now, you just – ”

Before Antonin could stop him, his frightened employee had him in a shaky bear hug as he mumbled incoherently. Unsure of how to respond, he simply cast his eyes up to Goyle. He did not enjoy apologizing, per se, but _acknowledging_ …that he could do.

“Grischa, you…you did the right thing, coming to get me.”

A great deal of the tension dissolved from the chief security guard’s face.

Antonin, still on his knees, managed to pry Reed off of him and grasp him by the shoulders. He tried to speak in the most calming voice he possessed.

“Wulfram, you must tell me, as best as you can, what happened tonight.”

“The…the black,” he muttered, his accent thicker than usual in his uncharacteristic hysteria. “The black fing. I dunno how to describe it, but it swirled, like one big…I couldn’t make out the shape underneaf it, you see, but it was just this…”

Wulfram wiggled his fingers independently to indicate a writing motion. 

“Mass of…black smoke. It was dark outside, obviously, so I didn’t see it coming – I just heard the glass breakin’ and, bob’s your uncle, it was there, right in the lab, glass flyin’ everywhere, someone laughin’ – and the next fing I knew I was down. I could hear ‘em moving around, shufflin’, almost lookin’ for sumfin’, like. I kept finkin’ they’d kill me.”

Antonin felt like an anvil had landed in his gut.

_Unsupported flight._

He turned to Goyle again. “Just to reiterate – you have _not_ yet called the aurors?”

“Right,” said Goyle. “You’re the first to know – aside from us two.”

“ _Ochen' khorosho_ – well-done,” he said, standing up, removing his wand from his robe pocket. “Get Wulfram some water, or whatever he wants, and sit with him for a bit – don’t leave him by himself until he’s calmer. I’m going to…take stock of the damage.”

“Do you want me to call Thorfinn?” Goyle asked.

“No,” Antonin answered. “I will tell him tomorrow – he’s worked enough lately.” 

Antonin, trying to ignore the winter cold – he should be used to it by now, he told himself – walked methodically up and down every line of shelves, cabinets, and elongated lab tables, holding out his wand in case the perpetrator had left any lingering surprises. He wanted to take inventory himself before the aurors were swarming everywhere because – aside from, perhaps, Parkinson, who was in hot water with him at the moment – he knew there wasn’t anyone else he trusted to do it. There was an _enormous_ mess here, which galled him, but thus far, as he listened to Goyle, in his odd, bumbling way, attempting to comfort Reed (“Look, mate, you didn’t – _die_!”), he could not discern that anything had actually been removed; in fact, there were a large amount of high-value potions and spell components that had been left wholly untouched.

However, when he arrived at the farthest corner from where he had found the paralyzed guard, he saw, with blooming, putrescent terror, that the locked cabinet which had – at that precise moment in his life – contained the spell ingredients which were the most valuable to him was thrown wide open and, now, utterly emptied.

_The mental regeneration spell components. All of them._

_Gone._

On the countertop below the cabinet, the criminal had taken a piece of white chalk from the green chalkboard on the wall – the workers used it for formulas, arithmancy, and various other calculations – and written something on the dark concrete surface.

**Antonin – fiat iustitia et pereat mundus.**

He recognized it as “Let justice be done, though the world perish.”

As intimidating as that was, it was nowhere near as disturbing as seeing his own name. 

Whoever did this knew who he was – who he _truly_ was.

But the aurors didn’t need to. 

Within seconds, he had waved his wand and murmured an untraceable erasure spell which left the Latin phrase in place but removed the “Antonin” completely.

There was something about the handwriting that was familiar to him.

But he was too unsettled just then to pinpoint the source.

Deeply shaken, running his fingers through his hair with one hand and gripping his wand with the other, he walked back towards Goyle and Reed, organizing his thoughts.

He could trade anxiety for analysis, at least for now.

First, he admonished himself. Right out of the gate, he should have set his own wards on this building, rather than relying on conventional security. But as vain as he knew it seemed, his ward spells were an art – he practically _signed_ them. No one in the world put up wards like Antonin Dolohov did, and that was the problem. He had feared, initially, that someone who had run into him before might stumble upon them and recognize them. It was paranoid, he recognized now, and he could no longer afford to be that timid; there were greater priorities in play. Before he left for Switzerland, he would need to remedy that – and, he suspected, pay a visit to Malfoy Manor.

Second, he knew that this break-in had not been about money – this had been about sending a message. He would have to think further on what it showed about the burglar that _only_ those specific ingredients were taken, but in the mean time there were some new practical obstacles in regard to Hermione, himself, and their contract.

He approached both of the security officers, now sipping water and sitting in a couple of chairs by the door. He leaned down and placed a hand on each one of their shoulders.

“Before you call the aurors,” he said, “I need you to understand something. Do you remember,” he said, looking at Goyle, “how I will be in Switzerland next week?”

“Yes,” he responded, nodding enthusiastically, trying to indicate attention paid.

“For all intents and purposes, _I am already there_ ,” he stated, standing to his full height.

Both of the guards cocked their heads simultaneously, like two springer spaniels.

“But…you’re standin’ right here,” uttered Wolfram.

Antonin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It is…absolutely _imperative_ …” he ground out between gritted teeth, “that the aurors not interact with me. I must not see them, at all, period. Ever.”

Antonin knew that Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived, Auror Supreme, and the man who almost managed to take him down before (if not for the unintentional help of Amycus Carrow) – would not be so easily obliviated. He had taken excessive, even egregious care over the last couple of years to avoid him, the masquerade being the one exception. 

“Therefore, if the aurors ask you about me, tell them that _I. Was. Not. Here._ ”

“Riiiight,” said Goyle, giving a collegial wink that did nothing whatsoever to assure Antonin. “Boss is in SWITZERLAND, Wulfram.”

“Switz-er-lan’,” repeated Wulfram, dully. “Even though he’s…here.”

Antonin sighed, his shoulders drooping, exhausted on every level.

“If you manage to complete these instructions, I’ll give you both a Christmas bonus.”

That seemed to perk them both up, he noted. Even Wulfram had some color back in his cheeks as Antonin, shaking his head and mumbling “ _uvidimsya_ ,” shoved open the laboratory doors and got back on the elevator, pushing in the code for the top floor.

He had some ideas for how to redeem the morning.

<> <> <> <> <>

Antonin realized that his little lioness had no pajamas when he walked back into his living room and saw her, wrapped up like forlorn, adorable burrito in one of his white blankets, sipping her orange juice and looking out at the barely lightening sky. A plate with some leftover crumbs was on the coffee table before her, and she had managed to re-light the fire. As she heard the step of his slippers on the tile floor, her head spun around towards him and, yet again, the brilliant smile on her face melted some of his unease. 

Smirking, he dropped his wand, kicked off his slippers, and disrobed, right in the middle of the living room – noting the surprised and ravenous look in her eyes, even without the veritaserum. He then sauntered over to the couch and picked her up in one fell swoop, the entire bundle of white blankets, unruly hair, soft skin, and quiet giggles. Pulling her close to him, he stomped into the bedroom and deposited her gently on the mattress, climbing in beside her and enveloping her still-blanketed body with all four of his greedy limbs.

“Bad morning?” she asked, freeing one arm to place it around his back.

In answer, he simply grunted, endeavoring to release her from her cotton swaddling.

Antonin explained, as concisely as he could, everything that had occurred in the lab while they were sleeping. He held nothing back. Although he did not want to worry his witch, she was in his life to the hilt now – there was no reason to hide any shred of it, he reasoned. He even told her about what had been written on the counter, and he felt her suck in a quick, tense breath when he spoke the vengeful Latin phrase.

“Those exact words were at Malfoy manor, as well, written in Draco’s blood on the wall.”

She sat up then, making it somewhat easier for his devilish fingers to unwind the blanket.

“ _Cyka Blyat, krasavitsa_ , this is like getting into Fort Knox…how did you do this to yourself…”

“Antonin, your facility was just BURGLED,” she snapped. “Likely by the same person who hit the Manor. They used a flight spell that, by all rights, no one alive should know how to do, and they know your _identity_. Are you sure this is the time for – _hmmmmm_ …”

He had shut her up by peeling her out of her cotton covers and touching his tongue to her nipple, making sure to give the other one equal attention as she leaned back.

“It is never _not_ the time, _L’venok_ ,” he growled, crawling on top of her, perched on his knees and hands above her magnificent fullness, bared to him, as it should be.

“ _Semper tempus_ ,” he leered, desirous and menacing, before lowering his lips to her skin. 

“But, the – the – ”

_Bless her_ , he thought – she really _was_ trying to say something, her eyes closed in bliss as he kissed his way up past her collarbone, to the place he had left a mark on her at the Yule masquerade. It was gone now. Perhaps she needed a replacement.

“Yes, Hermione,” he whispered in between covetous kisses, sensing what her question might have been. “Unfortunately…this break-in _will_ delay the spell for your parents…because every single ingredient…much to my immense frustration…will need to be regathered…and each one came from a…different part of the globe. It will be…a process. Now,” he clarified, “this…eventuality…will not postpone anything beyond…the length of the contract, of course…if that’s…what you were worried about – ”

“Not especially concerned about – that – at the moment,” she bit out, wiggling underneath the dedicated services of his mouth all around her lovely neck, reaching up her delicious fingernails to scratch his scalp again. 

“ – but this person,” he continued, “whoever he was, knew exactly what he was doing.”

He pulled back for a moment to gaze into her face as her eyelids fluttered open.

“Are you sure you saw Severus die?”

Hermione chortled, shaking her head and clasping her hands at the back of her neck. 

“Not a terribly romantic question right now, Antonin. But…Draco asked me the same thing, much to Narcissa’s consternation. And yes, I _am_ sure. Narcissa said he never would have hurt Draco and, well – what would he have against you?”

“Nothing,” he said, reaching down his hand to part and lift her legs, sneaking his own in between hers with a wry smile. Still holding himself up, he managed a shrug.

“I mean…he thought I was a lecherous degenerate, because of my feelings for _you_ …"

His lioness laughed, far longer and merrier than he would have liked, eliciting a frown from him. If his arms were not otherwise engaged, he would have crossed them.

“Well?” she asked, her shoulders still shaking. “Was he _wrong_?”

“Oh you little _minx_ ,” he grumbled, quickly grabbing both of her hands from his own neck and pinning them above her head. He leaned his hungry lips down close to her ear.

“Just for that, you get a new mark from me this morning,” he hissed.

“Anton – AHHHH!” she wailed in a fruitless attempt at admonition, her back arching in magnificent rebellion as he bit and sucked the same spot he had assaulted before, when he had almost taken her against the marble pillar in the hallway – Lucius be damned. Antonin still felt shortchanged by his interruption. He still needed more. 

He would never _not_ need more.

Using one arm to keep both of her hands pinned above her head, he reached his fingers down to softly touch her mound, tipping his head to the side, questioningly.

“Are you…sore?”

She did not resist his hold on her arms, but wiggled her pelvis a little, and seemed to think harder than he would have thought necessary about her answer.

“No. Well, not in any way that I would want eliminated. That probably makes no sense.”

He smiled, reaching one finger down to her clit and gently stroking, relishing the wicked little smile that crept across her angelic features. He thought he might understand.

“When I…finished. Did it burn? For some women…”

She sighed in endearing euphoria as he slid the finger inside.

“Don’t…worry about that,” she whispered, in answer to his query. “I…I like it.” 

He could see the genesis of the red rash blossoming above her tits as she admitted it.

“Plus,” she went on, squirming a little in response to the attention of his hand, “Have no fears, on that score. I brew my own contraceptive potion.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned down to bite her lip, playfully, still exploring inside her.

“I do not like this news, _L’venok_. Without putting a child in your belly,” he said, feeling the rumble of her derisive chuckles as he kissed the top of her scar, “how am I supposed to trap you into staying with me past the six-month mark?”

“Who’s…incorrigible _now_?” she chided, clenching herself on his hand as he slid in a second finger. He was impressed that she was able to maintain conversation at all.

“You have thrown my villanous plans into disorder with your craftiness, _umnitsa_. I can only hope that I am virile enough to overcome the unctions of your cauldron.”

He drank in her laughter as it blended, so beautifully, with the gasps brought on by his capable fingers. He knew that she thought he was joking about getting her pregnant. 

He wasn’t sure, himself, if he was. 

His throbbing, twitching cock seemed to be quite serious on the matter.

“Why on earth would…you be…disappointed…that I’m on the potion?” she asked, squeezing his restraining hand above her head. “I should have…hmmm… thought it would have put your mind at _ease_! No…mmm…mudblood children running around…”

“Ugh,” he exhaled, nuzzling her, planting a light kiss on her cheek, removing his fingers. “Please. Do not remind me of what I was. I am bad enough, even now.”

“Are you?” she inquired, opening her legs wide. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“You little _hellion_ ,” he hissed, leaning in close to her face. 

“Do you need a refresher course?” he threatened, his voice low, both a threat and a wish.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” she whispered, her grin bright as a crescent moon.

Antonin squeezed her hands in return – hard – and lined himself up with her entrance.

“Hermione Granger. You are being a… _gavno_ , what is the word? A _brat_.”

Her giggle was abruptly cut off as he thrust himself inside her, gritting his teeth, pushing into her delightful resistance – more, and more, and more, and then all the way.

“ _Fuuuuuuuuuuck_ ,” she moaned, lascivious, loud, and utterly perfect.

“ _Bozhe, ya chertovski lyublyu tebya_ ,” he rasped as she wrapped her legs tightly around him and they began to rock together, finding a rhythm – a new dance, to a new music. 

She felt better than he deserved, and he knew it.

“AHHHNNNNMMMM – I’m sorry,” she uttered, blushing. “I will…be quieter this time.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” he snarled, releasing her hands and pressing their bodies together as he rolled his lower half to invade her defenseless warmth again, and again, and again. 

“ _Antonin!!!_ ” he heard her squeal, before a keening ululation escaped her mouth – a farewell, perhaps a requiem, he hoped, for any version of her life without him in it.

Propped on his elbows, he kissed her lips, at first tender, but then pushing down harder, tongue and teeth and lips and growls and all the long arduous years of his desire for her, his body still seeking proof that, at last, _she_ was below him, _she_ was kissing him in return, and _she_ was tightening the grip of her legs on his lower back.

“Hermione, _milaya_ ,” he sighed in her ear, reminding himself that this was real – not like the times Riddle had forced him to fuck Alecto and Antonin had closed his eyes in the trembling, miserable dark, wishing it was his lioness instead. He wasn’t back there. 

He would never be back there. 

This was, Antonin knew now, deep in his bones – as the first rays of sunlight through his bedroom window brought out the bits of gold in her light brown hair – a new dawn.

It was slightly less frantic this time than the first time, the day before – more _relaxed_ , perhaps, since they were both cosseted by the cotton sheets, pillows, and comforters, rather than Antonin hoisting her with all his feral strength against the cold glass – but it felt no less intense. He lost a sense of the passing minutes as he rutted into her, only knowing _here, now, this, mine_. He had never done muggle drugs (he had only heard Thorfinn talk about them), but there was something similarly heady, disorienting, intoxicating about the swell of new sensations that came from fucking her, and he already knew it was going to be addictive. The shape of her breasts underneath his hand, the stiffening of her nipples as they responded to his touch, the pressure of her lower half squeezing him for all she was worth, the noise of her delicate whimpers, the friction of skin upon skin, of fingernails on flesh, and the constricting heat on his cock, pulsing now, drawing forth from him again what he had desperately wanted to restrain –

“Antonin, you – I’m going to – _Hungarian horntails!!!_ – fuck, I’m – _YES!!!”_

She screamed bloody murder, gripping his shoulderblades, her eyes rolling up into the back of her head, and there was no holding himself back then, not once he had beheld the lovely demon underneath him as she whined and surrendered to climax. 

“ _Khoroshaya devochka_ , that’s it – cum for me now,” he murmured. “I was wrong, you’re not a brat, you are good, you are _so, so good, too fucking good, FUCK_ – ”

Despite having an orgasm only the night before, he felt like he came buckets into his witch as he gasped for breath, emitting a crazed, strangled wail of abandon with three final, decisive thrusts, realizing this was better than magic, better than power, better than home, better than the wall of his jail cell exploding and his first step out into the cold rain of freedom, better than any spell he could cast, any ward he could place, any blood he could spill. _This_ was best. _She_ was best, he knew, as she pouted and mewled at his slick removal from her cunt – his least favorite part of sex being, clearly, her own as well.

And it was right as he rolled off of her, newly bathed in the bright, clear beams of what Yaxley used to call “post-nut clarity”, that it hit him, all of a sudden – an _idea_. 

In fact, one of the _greatest_ ideas he’d ever had, if he did say so himself.

Laying on his side and leaning on one elbow, he looked down at his lioness, who was panting, eyes closed, still floating down from her high like a dandelion seed. All the menace milked out of him – for now, anyway – he placed a silly little kiss on her upturned nose as he whispered, “ _L’venok_ …what are you doing the weekend _after_ Christmas?”

She opened her eyelids, slowly, but did not shift her head or body by even a centimeter amidst her lovely post-coital exhaustion, simply moving her eyeballs to meet his gaze.

“Nothing,” she said, blinking. “Just you, again? If you have anything left after those two superstar performances,” she huffed, with a weary smile.

She flipped over on her side to face him, reaching out to take his free hand.

“Why?”

He grinned, bringing her fingers to his lips and, once again, kissing them.

“ _Krasavitsa_ …have you ever been to America?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: zhopoliz = "asshole"; uspoykoysya = "take it easy"; Ochen' khorosho = "very good"; uvidimsya = "I'll see you"; Bozhe, ya chertovski lyublyu tebya = "God, I fucking love you"
> 
> • Semper tempus (Latin) = "there is always time", roughly
> 
> • When Antonin is ruminating to himself about the crime, there is a reference to this movie moment:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OyrX11cMkE
> 
> • As I was formatting the chapter I had planned to post, I realized that it was too short to post on its own; thus, I went ahead and added the smut for today's update. Monday's chapter will feature a conversation that, I believe, some of you have been looking forward to: Lucius vs. Antonin.
> 
> • I wanted to say, just overall, thank you. I was terribly worried about disappointing you by having to change the update schedule during these next few weeks (and thereby possibly losing you as readers), but every single one of you was EXTREMELY supportive and understanding. You are better than I deserve.


	22. "We Now Share a Problem"

<> <> <> <> <>

Lucius Malfoy, reclined in his study, his head still bandaged, was startled out of his afternoon nap with an unpleasant jolt by the sound of a knock on the front door. 

Draco was still out with Harry, doing Morgana knows what, and Narcissa – stating calmly that he could mostly fend for himself now – had _abandoned_ him in his hour of need to attend some sort of blasted high society holiday tea. 

Was he, in fact, better? Was he still wearing the bandage for attention? 

Possibly.

Narcissa, those light blue eyes as incisive as a scalpel, had seen right through it.

Thus, the house held only Lucius and Bipsy, who was, once again, cooking. 

He felt a stab of nauseating panic when he grabbed his wand and stood to walk towards the door, and he did not think it was just due to the lingering affects of the concussion.

It was not lost on Lucius that the attacker who had wounded him and his son could have – because they were using unsupported flight – burst in through any of the numerous glass windows in their manor, but chose to come in the _door_ for the precise reason that, now, he would encounter a frisson of worry at every knock.

He made it to the door but was still hesitant to actually open it.

Feeling foolish and gripping his wand in his right hand, he shouted, “Who’s there?”

“Domino’s pizza,” he heard, from the other side, in a recognizable Slavic drawl. 

An only slightly more preferable eventuality to the return of the attacker, in Lucius’s mind.

He opened the door, but only a crack. 

“What do _you_ want, Dolohov? You have _some nerve_ , showing up on my own bloody doorstep. You’re lucky I don’t thrash you within an inch of your miserable Soviet life.”

“I am _not_...Soviet,” Dolohov grumbled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 

He was a little more casual than he had been at the party, in black slacks and a crisp black Oxford shirt, the top two buttons loose. He, too, was carrying his wand, and leaning up against the outer, ornate stonemasonry of the door like he owned the place.

“And you don’t look like you’re in the position to be thrashing anyone,” he continued, pointing his wand at the bandage. “Did the potion I sent not help you?”

Lucius, still irate, opened the door wider and furrowed his brows.

“The blueberry drink? That was from _you_?”

“Ah – _konechno_ ,” Dolohov said, with a chuckle. “Narcissa didn’t tell you. You would not have taken it if you knew where it had come from, most likely.”

Lucius, taken aback by this revelation, needed a few seconds to gather his thoughts while his ears caught up with his rage. He was striving, through the vengeful bile threatening to prevent it, to force his tongue to formulate something close to a begrudging “thank you” when Dolohov, tired of waiting, wiggled his wand.

“I’m here to fix your wards.”

“What?” Lucius squeaked, the afternoon growing weirder by the second.

“I...came to put my wards up.”

All Lucius could do was blink.

“To protect you,” Dolohov went on, looking down. “So that…no one can hurt you again.”

Lucius, profoundly shocked, was still unable to construct words. Shaking his head rapidly, he simply opened the door and ushered Dolohov inside, then called for Bipsy.

When she appeared with a pop, Bipsy looked up at Dolohov with an indubitably well-intentioned but, to Lucius’s eyes, still unsettling smile. _Something about their rows of multitudinous, tiny, uncannily straight teeth,_ no doubt, he mused, as she curtsied.

“Ah! Sir who takes care of Miss Hermione has returned!”

“I _do_ plan to take care of her,” he smiled, glancing up at Lucius.

 _Disgusting, smarmy bastard_ , he thought, clenching his fists.

Lucius cleared his throat and was just barely able – one exacting, miffed syllable at a time – to utter, “I…was going to ask…Dolohov…if you would like…a drink.”

“One of those dirty martinis from the masquerade would be _otlichno_ ,” he replied.

“And Bipsy,” Lucius followed, “If there is any of the elf-made wine left over from the party, I would like a goblet. I think I’m going to need it,” he said, staring daggers at Dolohov.

After she disappeared, Lucius tried to take a deep breath and remind himself that this infernal reprobate _was_ , in this moment, actually here to help his entire family. From the cords of purple and teal magic which were already streaming from the tip of the Russian’s wand, it looked like he – standing in front of the closed oak double doors and moving his wrist in languid, captivating motions – had already begun the process.

“Dolohov, I am…grateful beyond measure for this. And for your assistance with Draco’s recovery, in addition to my own. But…aren’t you trying to hide your face?”

Without turning around, Dolohov shrugged. “You and Narcissa know who I am. Despite your distaste for my presence, and especially for my recent actions, you are two of the only people I can trust – and, like it or not, we need to work together now.”

He did pause then and spun around.

“The stakes are too high.”

Bipsy reappeared then, holding the goblet in one hand and the martini glass in the other. Lucius thanked her, took a sip from his own drink, and then placed Dolohov’s on the hallway table that was nearest him, making sure to locate a coaster this time. Dolohov had already turned back around, teal and purple streaks glittering farther out from his wand, by the time Bipsy made her mysterious way back to the kitchens.

“Well,” Lucius admitted, as much as it pained him. “Your wards _are_ the best.”

“Lucius. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

Dolohov looked over his shoulder with a wry smirk, his wand arm still moving.

“I’ve been afraid to use these,” he went on, “since they are... a little recognizable. But I just finished putting them up at my own building, after the same bastard hit us – ”

“Wait – you were attacked?” Lucius hissed, taking a step closer. “When?”

“Overnight,” Dolohov muttered. “I suspect it will be in tomorrow’s _Prophet_. By the way, Hermione told me that…there was a phrase written on your wall in Draco’s blood.”

“ _Fiat iustitia et pereat mundus_ ,” Lucius recited, taking another sip of his wine in an effort to suppress the unmanly chill that ran through his body.

“The same phrase was written on the counter in my lab, in chalk.”

“Cuntwollops,” Lucius swore.

“And they also wrote my name. My _real_ name,” Dolohov confided, as the tendrils of aubergine and blue-green magic glittered out from the doorframe into the corridor.

“Bloody bouncing boggarts!” Lucius yelped. 

“Oh,” interjected Antonin, his wand arm twirling, “I forgot to ask – I’ll need a passcode for this. I’m setting these wards to where only certain people can enter – Hermione, yourself, Narcissa, Draco, presumably Potter – but anyone else will need to speak the passcode before entering. Give me something you won’t forget, quick as you can.”

Lucius, taking another drink and squinting, thought immediately of his lovely wife.

“Room of Requirement,” he replied, leaning up against the same pillar that, by no fault of its own, had cracked open his cranium a few days before.

“Allright then,” Dolohov said, nodding, asking no questions. “ _Room of Requirement_ ,” he spoke, in a booming, sage voice, and for a few seconds his wand lit up pure white.

“Passcode is set,” Dolohov declared, as the stripes of colored magic extended so far down the hallway that Lucius could no longer see where they ended. Presumably, they would slither into every room of the manor – and he had to admit that he was relieved. 

“Did they, the attacker – ” he probed, removing the now-useless bandage from his head.

“Unsupported flight, just like yours, from what my security guard reported,” Dolohov interrupted, keeping his eyes on the magic, occasionally mumbling little Russian nothings under his breath. “They – or I suspect _he_ – only took the spell ingredients from _one_ cabinet, nothing else, none of the expensive potions or other components. It seems that he specifically wanted me to prevent me from doing any more mental regeneration spells. Or to punish me for having done it to begin with. Perhaps both.”

“So,” Lucius sighed, icy dread pooling in his chest. “We now share a problem.”

“Yes,” Dolohov replied. The streams of warding were starting to glisten and shimmer even more as he switched the wand to his left hand, presumably to give his right a rest. 

“I’m certain it’s the same perpetrator,” Dolohov explained. “It feels extremely…intentional. Crafted to send a message. Even with your son,” he said, pausing to mutter another unintelligible incantation and twisting his wrist, “whoever did it used _sectumsempra_ because he must have known Draco almost died from it before.”

“I had wondered,” Lucius offered, crossing one leg over the other while leaning against the marble. “If we might be dealing with some sort of malcontent. Someone who thinks we deserve to be rotting back in Azkaban, along with Roddy and Alecto.”

Lucius thought he caught a slight shudder in Dolohov’s shoulders at the mention of the woman’s name. Still twirling the wand, he shook his head, his mouth a firm line.

“I have been meticulously careful, Lucius,” he said. “I do not think it would be possible for some random, psychotic, manifesto-wielding plebe to find out who I really am. I know it isn’t rational, but I am beginning to think this is – that this _must_ be – someone from our shared past. The strength it would take to perform those two spells alone – ”

“A…member of the ranks?” Lucius interjected. 

Dolohov did not move his body, but Lucius could see his morose, slow nod of assent.

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything, and Dolohov focused on his spellwork.

“Amycus?” Lucius posited after a while, running his fingers through his platinum hair, stuck flat to the back of his head from the bandage. “They never found a body.”

“No, actually – Amycus is the person I’m most sure did NOT commit these crimes. Just trust me. I don’t know if your tender constitution could stomach the details.”

Despite the insult, Lucius did not see fit to argue.

“Are you sure Yaxley died?” he asked, taking another drink of the aromatic wine.

“His face was hexed clean in half right beside me at the battle of Hogwarts, Lucius – yes, I am sure he died,” Dolohov gurmbled. “Lupin made sure of that. _Boleye togo_ , when he was alive, Yaxley and Thorfinn were the two men that I trusted most.”

“Are you _so sure_ about Thorfinn?,” Lucius pressed, recalling the pocketknife incident.

Dolohov paused, lowered his wand, and turned around with an unamused glare.

“I _am_ , in fact, so sure about Thorfinn.”

Lucius wondered if Dolohov was, perhaps, blinded by loyalty to his employee and – as he remembered well, from the old days – someone he considered a younger brother.

“Are you _quite_ certain that you are not forgetting what he could become, when – ”

“That was only when he was defending one of _us_ , you ungrateful _mudak_ ,” he spat. 

He appeared like he was tempted, for a brief instant, to stop putting up the wards altogether, and Lucius realized that he might have overstepped. 

But then Dolohov looked a little sheepish.

“And…I don’t think Thorfinn would have been able to pull off the spells, particularly unsupported flight. Physically, he’s _far_ stronger than I am – than any of us were – ”

“…but he was not an ace spellcaster,” Lucius conceded.

Dolohov shrugged again in silent agreement.

“Anyway, what about _your_ houseguest,” he accused, pointing his wand at Lucius even as it continued to emit the purple and teal streams. “Rabastan?”

“Really? You think he is capable? A man who lets his paramour call him ‘Rabbit’?”

He seemed to chew on that for a minute, looping some curlie cues in the air with the wand. 

“How in the _hell_ did he manage to get _her_ , by the way?”

“I have no idea,” Lucius answered, rubbing his face with his free hand. “She is, indeed, beautiful, and strangely appears to hold no grudge against me for the fact that she was kept as a prisoner in my basement. Seems to rather enjoy coming here, oddly. But, in any case, Rabastan has an alibi. He was with her, when the attack happened.”

Lucius could see the cords of opaque magic, having slunk their shimmery way all around the house, coming back towards the two of them through the other corridor. 

“Well,” grumbled Antonin, “we shall have to be methodical. I am stuck going to an mind-numbing medical conference and a gauntlet of other meetings in Switzerland, starting tomorrow, but whenever I get back we should get together and make a list of all the old crew, collecting whatever information we think we know and reexamining. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable’ – ”

“ – ‘must be the truth,’” Lucius finished for him, trying to stifle a small, growing sense of respect. “Sherlock Holmes. Not a reference I anticipated from a rogue like you.”

Antonin ran his fingers through his locks of dark hair, something awkward in the gesture.

“My father was a writer, a wandering poet of sorts. He loved literature, and…my _dedushka_ had a lot of old books his family had squirreled away, before the revolution, many of them Western. My father would read to me from them every night, as I…fell asleep.”

Lucius remembered then, Narcissa, in her magnificent emerald green lace teddy, saying, _“Don’t you remember what happened to him? To his parents – ”_

“Well, anyway,” Dolohov said abruptly, “I think we’re almost done here.”

The teal and aubergine lines of protection coming from the other side of the house reached down towards Dolohov’s wand, briefly joining the other set, making a manor-wide circle, before emitting a sudden _whooshing_ sound and illuminating the entire hallway in a blue-green glow. Lucius felt a slight winter breeze, despite no window being open, and then it all appeared to be over. Dolohov stuck his wand into his pants pocket.

“Just remember that password and, from now on, you should be safe.”

Nucius, nodding, was flooded with relief and reluctant gratitude, but he also felt he would be failing in his duties as a father figure if he did not speak his mind.

“Dolohov, I…I am thankful, truly, for your help securing my home. I cannot pretend otherwise. But do not think that this kindness on your part will erase my objections.”

Dolohov, who had already been reaching for the door handle, looked up.

“To what?”

“To your pursuit of my goddaughter.”

Dolohov blinked, slowly, lowering his arm and standing up straight. 

“I must say that this is a strange way of thanking me, Lucius.”

“You will ruin her,” Lucius continued, steely and undeterred.

“For any other man?” Dolohov replied. “Yes. That is my precise intention.”

“Is this a _joke_ to you?”

“Not in the slightest, _staryy drug.”_

Dolohov folded his arms with a deep sigh.

“You _really_ want to do this now?”

“ _Yes_ I bloody do want to do this now,” Lucius spat, finishing his wine in one aggressive gulp and dropping the empty glass dramatically on the tile floor.

“Fine. Let’s do it,” said Dolohov, walking over to take an equally aggressive drink of his forgotten martini before continuing. “What are your objections to me as a suitor?”

“First of all, the age difference…”

“Lucius, we are witches and wizards. Age is…relative. Not as big of a deal compared to the ‘nasty, brutish, and short’ lives of muggles.”

“Secondly, you’re a death eater.”

“…so are _you???_ ” Dolohov countered, squinting in disbelief.

“And then,” deciding not to engage with that, because Dolohov was of course right, “you go and make her sign this bloody archaic _solstice contract_ …”

“What is your exact problem with the contract?”

“It imprisons her. She is stuck with you for six months, and you KNEW she’d give into you by hanging her parents over her head like that.”

Dolohov rolled his eyes and put his hands in his pockets, like a schoolboy in trouble. 

“I needed to give myself a decent shot to make her fall for me,” he muttered, “something with clear parameters that I could plan for. You must understand I am dealing with the substantive disadvantage of having attempted to murder her.”

“I DO understand, all too well, what you would have the power to do to her during that time. I have…lost sleep thinking of the ways in which you might torture her.”

“That was more your sister-in-law’s baileywick. Her and Barty.”

“Oh, so, clearly my own memories are mistaken – you were an _angel_ , then,” he hissed.

Dolohov held up a finger, signaling for patience, then grabbed his martini, finished it in three swift gulps, and placed it back on the coaster before answering.

“Lucius. Let us speak as men, and not as adversaries for one moment, if you will allow it. In the olden days, it always gave us – Yaxley, Goyle, myself, and even Thorfinn a little bit, although he’s grown up now – _enormous_ pleasure to get you riled up because it is so insanely easy to do. But because you, apparently, mean so fucking much to this woman who I’ve shaped my life around, I will level with you. I do not want to torture her.”

Dolohov took a deep breath and looked the lord of the manor in the eye.

“I love her, Lucius. I have loved her for years.”

It bothered Lucius immensely that Dolohov seemed to be telling the truth.

“Have you told her that?” he asked. “That you are in _love_ with her?”

Dolohov shook his head, looking down at the floor.

“I…” he chewed on his lip for a moment. “I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“You seem to have no compunction about overwhelming her in _other_ ways,” Lucius scoffed. He had picked up, to his regret, on everything Narcissa wasn’t saying.

Dolohov looked back up at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Sometimes it’s easier to take a cock than a heart.”

There was a bizarre, blunt profundity to that statement, but, instead of acknowledging it, Lucius could not help but respond with, “Please never mention your cock in context with my goddaughter ever again, Dolohov.”

“Fair,” he responded. It looked like he had meant to come back with some witty retort, but in that instant both of them heard one of the side doors down the hall opening and slamming closed. Lucius pivoted to the left to see Narcissa, ripping off her London Fog jacket, tossing it angrily on the coathanger, and stomping up the grand staircase.

“That’s not like her,” both men grumbled simultaneously. 

They looked at each other, confused to be, for once, in agreement. 

“See to your wife,” said Dolohov, nodding in the direction Narcissa had gone. “We can talk again when I return from Switzerland. Please give Bipsy my compliments for the martini.”

Lucius nodded as Dolohov opened the door, but called out after him one more time.

“How do you say ‘thank you’? In…your mother tongue.”

Dolohov, turning around, blinked a few times. 

“In Russian? _Spasibo_ ,” he returned, unmoving.

“Very well then,” said Lucius, swallowing his pride and bowing his head. “ _Spasibo_. For the wards.”

Dolohov bowed his own head in return, smiling a curiously dimpled smile. 

There seemed to have been no sarcasm in it.

<> <> <> <> <>

“…Narcissa?”

Lucius called his wife’s name, a little timidly, as he opened the door to her boudoir.

“UUURRRGGHHH!” 

She had uttered the utterly un-Narcissa-like noise from the stool in front of her vanity as she, apparently, struggled with removing the barrette clip which was holding up, and had become tangled within, her hair. Approaching her as one would sidle up to a rabid badger, Lucius mildly waved at his wife in the mirror’s reflection.

“What do you _want_ , Lucius???”

He stepped back as if she’d spat upon him. 

He had seen his wife through pregnancy, miscarriages, times-of-the-month; he had seen her in the darkest period of their lives, when their home was under occupation from a reptilian psychopath; and he had even seen her as a relatively hormonal teenage girl. And he had NEVER seen her act like this in all of their years together. It would have been relatively normal for any other woman, but _not_ for this one. 

Something was not right.

He stepped forward, slowly, and touched both of his hands to the sides of her throat. She closed her eyes, as her hands, still worrying with the clip, froze in place.

“ _Desiderata_ ,” he whispered.

It was a pet name he used for her sometimes, usually only when they were alone. He felt her respond to it, as she always did, some of the tension leaving the muscles in her neck. She took a deep, deliberate breath, and it was only then he saw a tear escape one of her closed eyes. He took her hands out of her hair and placed them on the table in front of her, bending down close to her face, whispering huskily in her ear.

“Let me,” he rasped.

She nodded, opening her eyes, and eventually reaching for the tissue dispenser.

As he untangled the barette, he ventured, “My love…what has happened?”

“Lucius,” she said, with a sniffle. “I’m…so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is _wrong_ with you. You are my jewel,” he said, placing the newly freed clip on the table and running his long fingers through her hair as it fell down around her face.

“I have no idea what…possessed me to snap at you like that,” she confessed, leaning her head back into his touch. He realized that she was trembling.

“Stand up for me, dearest,” he said, taking a step back. She followed his instructions, closing her eyes again as he set about dismantling her armor, one piece at a time.

“At the tea today,” she began, while he carefully took out one silvery earring and then the other, placing them with the barrette. “You see, I really didn’t _want_ to leave the house – to leave you. I tried to act…stiff-upper-lipped and all that, when you asked me to stay, but I’m – I’m still so nervous. I have these fears that I’ll come back and – ”

“I’m here,” he said, closing the gap between them to hold her tightly, as she shuddered. 

“ – and that whoever it is will have finished the job, with – either of you, or both of you,” she stammered. “But I thought I could be brave, truly, and I just didn’t want to back out at the last minute since Clothilde had put so much work into everything – ”

“I know, I know, and you _are_ brave. Far too much of this life has required that of you,” he lamented, releasing her from the hug so he could remove her other jewelry. 

Narcissa was wearing an eggshell-colored sheath dress with a tweed suit jacket, which was a blend of off-white and pear-green. On the jacket was pinned a large silver brooch featuring two swans joined together as they swam, and Lucius worked on removing it as she continued recounting her day. He knew the pin was a family heirloom, something she cherished, something her father, Cygnus – his name meaning “swan” – had given to her mother when they were married, but truth be told he rather hated the thing. He thought it a tad garish in size, and there was something else about it that he had long disliked – something he found it hard to put his finger on. 

“But when the other ladies were gossiping, I heard the news about the break-in last night at the MediMagic building, and what was written in the laboratory…”

Having placed the earrings and the brooch in the drawer where he knew she kept her silver accessories, Lucius took her tweed suit jacket and hung it up in her closet, not paying particular attention to where – he left the organization of that mysterious magical area to Narcissa. He noticed, though, as he walked back to her, that she was no longer shaking, and she gazed at him with much more of her usual affection.

“…and, of course those ladies don’t know this, none of them do, but I believe that whoever did this broke into that lab because it’s _Antonin’s_ lab. Someone out there is hunting us all down, I fear, and I was so _scared_ again, and then I couldn’t seem to do anything right – I apparated to the wrong side of the house, and I got a run in my stockings, and then as you saw I couldn’t get the clip out without tearing my hair – “

“Well, speaking of your foreign friend,” Lucius said, zipping her out of the eggshell dress and letting it pool at her feet, “I have some information that should help a great deal.”

She shimmied out of her ripped pantyhose and spun around to face him, allowing him to reach back, undo the clasp on her bra, and drop it unceremoniously on the hardwood floor as he explained how Antonin Dolohov had showed up half an hour previously and placed some of his own famous protection wards around their home. 

She blushed a little when Lucius told her the password he had chosen. He knew she remembered that first liplock as well as he did; it had gotten out of hand rather quickly.

“Dear Antonin! Merlin preserve him,” she whispered, as Lucius took her hand and lead her through the door that opened from her boudoir into their own shared bedroom. “I don’t know how on earth to thank him. _Please_ tell me that you were civil, my sweet.”

“I was _civil!_ ” he objected, removing his own outer robe as he mumbled, “More or less.”

She folded her arms over her uncovered breasts and pursed her lips.

“Now now now, no giving that kind of disapproving look to the man who’s about to administer you a ‘sensual massage’ – on the bed, face down, there you go, my pet.”

Within seconds, Lucius had acquired some coconut oil from the drawer in the nightstand and was leaning over Narcissa, pressing his slick hands into her back and neck muscles in his particular patterns, eliciting some heavenly noises from his wife. After a while of his thoughtful, focused ministrations, she seemed like herself again, not like the addled, bitter creature that had greeted him a few minutes ago.

“Well,” she confessed, with a dulcet sigh, “I have to say that your news _does_ make me feel enormously better – just as this positively magnificent back rub is doing.”

“Are you going to say that you ‘don’t know how on earth to thank’ me, either?” he teased, rubbing his thumbs in circles on either side of her spine.

“No,” she said, with a charming laugh. “I think I know _precisely_ how to thank you.”

And with that, Narcissa rolled on her back, reached up to grab his shirt collar, and pulled his lips down to meet her own in a passionate, searing kiss.

Lucius was now _quite_ ready to demonstrate his full recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: konechno = "of course"; otlichno = "excellent"; boleye togo = "moreover" or "furthermore"; dedushka = "grandfather"
> 
> • When Antonin uses the phrase "nasty, brutish, and short" in reference to the lifespan of muggles, he is quoting the philosopher Thomas Hobbes in *Leviathan* (1651), wherein Hobbes described the natural human condition – without the advent of government and civilization – as a "warre of every man against every man".
> 
> • Desiderata in Latin just means "desired" or "that which is desired." It's also a reference to a once-famous prose poem written by an American lawyer, Max Ehrmann, in 1927. Here is a link if you want to read it:
> 
> https://mwkworks.com/desiderata.html
> 
> I often consider it as an unintentional companion to Rudyard Kipling's "If". "If" is a list of advice for sons, and "Desiderata" is, basically, a list of advice for daughters.
> 
> Desiderata is also the name of the queen in the Traitor Son Cycle by Christian Cameron (also known as Miles Cameron), which is in my top three book series of all time list, along with Frank Herbert's Dune and Katherine Arden's Winternight. Honestly, it's probably my number one, although it is not for everyone; it is detail-heavy and does not hand-hold.
> 
> • "Sensual massage" is two hundred percent an Austin Powers reference.
> 
> • I didn't see this until recently, but this piece from AvendellArt on Instagram of young Lucius and Narcissa, I thought, did an unintentionally lovely job of accompanying some of the events reverenced in this chapter:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/CLUc1jAAGsR/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
> 
> • The next chapter features a couple of different situations: Christmas morning at Malfoy Manor, and, before he leaves for Switzerland, Antonin's conversation with Pansy regarding *elevatorgate*. I'm going to go ahead and warn you now that this conversation might not proceed exactly as some of you have been anticipating, but I hope that it is nonetheless satisfying – and that it gives some more illumination to her actions.


	23. "Purity Will Always Conquer"

<> <> <> <> <>

Antonin sat at the desk in his study, rapping his fingers on the old cedar surface in anxious impatience, as he waited to start his last meeting before he left for Switzerland. 

His bag was packed, as well as Mishka’s (“no, what are you doing – you don’t need the duck toy _and_ the raccoon toy – wait, stop – stop _yapping_ at me, allright, fine, _ya sdayus’_ , I will pack both!”). He had just double-checked to make sure he had included his toiletries, his business suits, and his hiking gear, for the Christmas Day train trip up to the summit of the Jungfrau that Thorfinn had been excitedly planning for almost two years now, to be sandwiched in between some one-on-one chats with clients and a week-long medical conference that excited him about as much as watching grass grow. 

Normally, Antonin would have been much more engaged, but there was something at home now that soaked up the majority of his interest. 

He wished he could have packed _her_ in his bag. 

It felt physically _wrong_ to be leaving Hermione now after the electrifying hours they had spent together – like he was a honeybee with his stinger embedded in her skin, and he was dragging his own entrails behind. He had been half tempted to ask her to quit her job and simply work for him, at which point he’d be justified in bringing her along. 

_God knows we could use her here, my own selfish desires aside_ , he thought. 

But he knew that the same strength, independence, and loyalty he adored in his witch would prevent her from abandoning her ministry position so quickly. 

Still, it might be something he could work on – a seed he could plant.

His pernicious plotting was interrupted by a knock at the door, a knock which he had been dreading. He called for the visitor to come in and heard the sharp clack-clack of what he knew from experience were dizzyingly tall stilettos coming down the corridor.

Pansy Parkinson sauntered into his study, her arms already folded. He knew that her prickliness was an exoskeleton, and that, below the carapace, she was likely afraid.

There was something in that shell which reminded him of himself, a long time ago.

He felt for Pansy – in none of the ways that Hermione had feared, but something like paternal pity. He identified with her, somewhat; she was highly intelligent but fell in with the wrong group of people early on, and it had nearly fucked up the rest of her life. 

But his familial regard for her did not extend to permitting her to get away with what she had done to his woman. An unpleasant but necessary line was about to be drawn.

“Thank you for coming to meet with me, Pansy,” he said, standing up to greet her and gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk.

She did not answer him but, with a huff and a flip of her short, onyx hair, did sit down.

“This is about Granger, isn’t it?”

It was in her character not to beat about the bush – so he would not do so, either.

“I would,” he said, aiming for a firm but fatherly tone, “like to give you a chance to explain your behavior towards her, in the elevator.”

“She told you, I suppose.”

“She only mentioned the comment about her parents, but I had Goyle pull up the security footage later, and – well – you should know I am an excellent lip reader.”

His temper was rising again, just from remembering all of what his witch had endured, but he took a deep breath and folded his hands in an attempt to douse the heat. 

To her credit, Pansy had worked for him long enough now to know that she should not waste any time in histrionics or false defensiveness. She simply nodded, sighed, crossed her legs, and laid back in the chair before speaking, sounding a bit resigned.

“You might not have known this, but I was with Blaise Zabini for three years.”

“I did not – or, not before I saw the footage,” he said.

 _Pansy was one of the other three_ , he thought, remembering what Hermione had said about their brief, but regrettable, coupling. He never knew Blaise, but the man appeared to have painted a swath of feminine destruction all across London, and if he ever _did_ meet him he would have loved to have broken a couple of his teeth.

“I loved him,” she spoke, leaning on her own hand.

Dolohov’s eyebrows popped up like two pieces of breakfast toast. It was not like Pansy to express any kind of sentimentality.

“I was close with his parents, I was living with him, I was doing his laundry – the whole shebang. He said…he was going to marry me.” 

_They always do_ , thought Antonin.

“One day,” she continued, looking around at the various bookshelves, “because I _was_ doing the laundry, I found a pair of periwinkle-colored lace knickers in his coat pocket that weren’t mine. I did an investigation spell on them – ”

“ _Quod vestimentum?_ ” he asked. That was, if he remembered correctly, a tricky one.

“Yes, the very one. The name that came up, obviously, was Hermione Granger’s. I confronted him as soon as he got home, and he fell down in the doorstep like a sack of potatoes – waterworks and everything, absolutely fucking mental. He said…”

She met Antonin’s eye and blushed, the rest coming out in an embarrassed mutter.

“He said that she’d dosed him with a love potion one night while he was out with the boys and that he was afraid I’d leave him if he told me about it.”

Antonin could not repress a disappointed groan, burying his face in his hands.

“Teddy Nott backed up his story, of course,” she continued. “There was already bad blood between Granger and I for lots of reasons but...well anyway, none of this ended up mattering, since he dumped me and emigrated to New Zealand. He wrote me a five sentence letter on a yellow legal pad, said he hoped I ‘found peace’ – absolute bollocks.”

There was a cartoon Antonin had once seen in which a forest animal gave advice along the lines of, “If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all.” As he rubbed his temples and stared across the desk at his employee – an employee who he had thought was _so much smarter_ than this – saying nothing was the best that he could do.

“But,” she objected, sitting up straight, “when I heard you were courting HER, through the devil's snare – word gets around fast here, as I’m sure you know – I just...I thought she was _rotten_ and didn’t want her anywhere near you. I don’t want to sound like a sappy nutter or anything, Mr. P, but you’re the closest I’ve got to a Dad at this point.”

She may as well have just punched him full-on in the stomach.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she stipulated, holding up her hands. “We’ve all wanted you to put yourself out there and date – Wulfram even wondered if you were gay – ”

Antonin pinched the bridge of his nose and wished for alcohol.

“But when I heard it was her...I just wanted her to know she wasn’t going to be allowed to hurt you. We’re a family here at MediMagic. If anyone crosses you, they cross us all.”

She had been defiant for those last two sentences, but then deflated a bit.

“But…then I got to thinking about what she said in the elevator, and it turns out that she was right. I asked around, you know, with some people who WEREN’T Teddy Nott, and they all confirmed her version. And now I feel like…utter garbage.” 

He simply tented his hands and blinked, letting his silence speak for him.

“But if she does hurt you I _will_ soak her toes in hydrochloric acid and I stand behind that.”

“You will do NO SUCH THING!” he finally snapped, slamming his palm on the desk. “You will not even do so much as think an ill thought in her general direction!!!”

She had reared back as if she was afraid he would hit her. He did not like that.

“Pansy,” he said, balling his fists in frustration, then softening. “You’re telling me, that he told _you_ – the top alchemist in my firm – THAT bullshit story, and you believed him?”

“UNNNNHHHGGGG!” she cried, and this time it was she who put her face in her hands. “I was LONELY. I am _still_ lonely. We’ve talked about this. I’m a _pariah_. Forever alone!!!”

“And yet,” he ventured, raising an eyebrow, “you would not have to be alone if you simply gave the time of day to a man who clearly thinks you hung the moon.”

She scoffed, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Talk about someone who will date multiple girls at once. Mr. P, are you serious?”

“You _like_ him, it is OBVIOUS that you like him, and he likes _you_ , and yet you scorn him. This makes no sense to me, Pansy, when your happiness is within your grasp.”

"Haven't you ever heard the rule 'don't shit where you eat' when it comes to dating people you work with?"

"I have no such rule," he responded, with a shrug, "and I own the company. You are looking for excuses." 

“He’s a bloody PLAYER!” she shrieked. “Probably worse than Blaise!”

“He would not be if he had the one he really wanted. You deny him that.”

“What if I do? I can’t trust – I _can’t_ – I can’t go _through this again_ ,” she stammered, removing an errant tear from her cheek. Then she straightened her posture, folded her hands over her skirt, and, right before his eyes, turned to ice. 

“Are you calling me in here to yell about what I did to Granger or to advise me on my miserable love life?”

He held up a hand in a weary gesture of surrender. 

“ _Nevazhno_ ,” he conceded. He ran his fingers through his hair, gathering his focus.

“Pansy, you are one of the two people in this building I depend upon the most. You know who the other one is, but, yes, I will avoid that topic for now – you can stop giving me that withering look of yours. I am done with it. As for _you_ , however, you are brilliant, diligent, and adaptable. I appreciate, on some level, that you are protective of me – that you view me as family. I look at you with the same sense of _storgia_ , which is the only reason why I haven‘t already given you a cardboard box to pack up your office into.”

She managed to avoid a gasp, but her eyes went as wide as Cadbury eggs. 

“It would be hard to replace you. It would PAIN me to replace you. But if you say anything like that comment about her parents to Miss Granger again, I will fire you without a single blink, and you will be folding scarves again.”

He thought that he detected a slight tremble in her hands.

“Do you understand me, Pansy? _Ponimayesh’?”_

She took a deep breath and folded her arms again. “I understand. Are we _finished?”_

He nodded, feeling like he had just kicked a puppy.

She stood, took a few aggressive stomps towards the inner corridor, but then turned back around and mumbled, looking at the floor, “For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” he said, with a rueful sigh. “I have seen the archetype of you, Pansy. Sometimes it becomes clouded, but I know _who you are_ , beneath the smoke and obfuscation, and no illusion will rob me of it. I still believe in you.”

She was crying then.

She nodded, tried to smile through the silent tears, and turned to go without a word. 

Antonin could hear the distant echoes of her heels popping back down the hall towards the elevator after she had closed the door.

He had not enjoyed that. 

But he reached his hand into his pocket to hold the small, braided lock of hair his witch had permitted him to cut before she left that morning – lifting it to his nose to smell the scent, dearer than any other now – he could not find it within himself to regret it.

<> <> <> <> <>

Christmas morning at Malfoy Manor had been a small but warm affair. 

It was a difficult time for Hermione, and it probably always would be. She couldn’t help but remember spending hours with her mum, holding a rolling pin, whisk, and mixing bowls, ending up covered in powdered sugar but it being completely worth it.

But she tried (and mostly succeeded) to live in the moment – to enjoy the sound of the holiday choir emanating from the antique gramophone, the feeling of the toasty fire in the fireplace, and the jovial presences of Harry, Draco, Lucius, and Narcissa. They were all gathered comfortable leather chairs which had been situated around the resplendently decorated tree in the large living room area, and wearing – Narcissa had arranged – matching silk green pajamas, since Hermione and Harry had both spent Christmas Eve with them as well, relishing a genuinely exceptional dinner. They were now surrounded by various plates of breakfast snacks and the leftover bits of present wrapping and tissue, laughing while Harry told an animated, hysterical story about a ridiculous domestic call which the Aurors had recently been forced to address. 

She had lost track of the various gifts that had gone around, since they all spoiled each other to no end (she remembered Narcissa giving Draco roughly six dozen magical spellbooks for his Zambian school initiative), but she was especially enamoured with what Lucius and Narcissa had given her: an absolute gobsmacker of a dress. 

It was an off the shoulder V-neck number in dark red – almost the same shade as the ball gown she’d worn roughly a week before – but this one only came just a bit past the knees, flaring out in a cascade of lightly ruffled fabric that gathered at a pleated waist. 

Hermione already knew exactly who she would be wearing it for, and she supposed Narcissa did too. Lucius, on the other hand, had seemed a bit less enthusiastic about the gift when Hermione opened it, but Narcissa had insisted that Hermone had “nowhere near enough dresses” and deserved to show off how “gorgeous” she was.

As Harry concluded his narrative – Draco was laughing so hard that there were tears in his eyes – Hermione noticed that Narcissa was squinting in the direction of the tree.

“My love,” she said to Lucius, reaching over and pulling the sleeve of his pajama blouse. “What is that other gift under the tree? The white bag? Is that from you?”

“I’ve no idea, pet,” he said, swiveling in his seat to look at it. “I had assumed it was something from you or from Draco.”

“Let’s have a look then, shall we?” said Draco, gamely, getting up from his seat to walk over to the tree and reach under the boughs for the simple white paper bag. Hermione could see purple tissue peeking out from inside it as he lifted the heart-shaped tag.

“It’s for Hermione!” he yelped. “But there’s no name. _I bet I know who it’s froooooom!”_

Everyone seemed to have a different reaction to this information. 

Hermione was shocked; she had not anticipated that, with this little time in advance, and with him being in Switzerland for business this week, Antonin would have sent her a Christmas present – and her surprise was soon replaced by mortification when she recalled that all she had given him before she left was a lock of her hair. 

Lucius was gripping the arms of his chair; a certain vein on the side of his neck was pulsing, and he was staring into the fire like a combat veteran hearing fireworks. 

Narcissa, trying not to giggle, simply covered her lips with her hand.

Harry and Draco, in tandem, were singing, “MIONE’S GOT A BOOOYFRIEND, MIONE’S GOT A BOOOOYFRIEND, MIONE’S GOT A BOOOOYFRIEND – ”

“Harry. Draco. _Really_ ,” Hermione drawled, reaching up to accept the bag.

“Oh yeah, Granger – I know all about it! You cheeky wench – there I was asking Thorfinn all about him at the party, and I had no idea you two were a couple.”

 _I had no idea at that point either, Draco,_ she mused.

“I can’t believe you ended up with the man who has the drug dealer name,” Harry joked, crossing one leg over the other. “Does he have an _actual_ tiger?”

Hermione cast a questioning glance over to Narcissa.

“I…took the liberty of telling Draco that you were dating Mr. Putorana.”

Narcissa, as she was speaking the words, was also subtly shaking her head – the clear implication being, _Neither of them know who he actually is._

 _Bless them_ , she thought, overflowing with affection, looking back and forth between Narcissa and Lucius, who could still not meet her eye. _Bless them both._

“Oh, don’t be upset with us, Hermione,” consoled Harry, reaching over to lay a hand on Draco’s arm as he sat back down. “We’re happy for you, if _you’re_ happy.”

“I, for one, am glad you’ve nabbed someone worthy of your talents,” Draco said. “Not that anyone can _match_ them, mind you, but I hope we get to meet him – ”

“I’m such an imbecile,” interrupted Lucius, in a fortress of his own pain. He hit himself in the forehead with his palm, muttering in bitter self-recrimination. “Of course he would have been able to get back in through the wards – they are HIS WARDS! He must have simply sauntered right back into the living room after I left him – ”

“Dad, what the bloody hell are you on about?” asked Draco, raising an eyebrow.

Narcissa, who, Hermione could see, was sneakily pinching a grimacing Lucius on the arm, blithely said, “Mr. Putorana was kind enough to come by, after the…incident…and set up some stronger wards around our home. You two are granted access through them, as is Hermione, but anyone else will require a passcode.”

“Ah!,” said Draco, sitting back in his chair. “Better and better! What a gentleman!”

“I hope he did the same to his _own_ building, after what happened to his lab,” said Harry. “I suspect I’ll be dealing with that tomorrow…but, anyway, I’ve talked about work enough on Christmas. Go on, 'Mione, open it!” encouraged Harry, pointing at the bag.

“Unless you think it’s lingerie,” Draco quipped.

It seemed that all the color drained out of Lucius’s face in one instant.

“I…I have no idea _what_ it is, and have _nothing_ for him in return. I feel…positively awful, actually,” she confessed, looking over at Narcissa. “I didn’t think we were doing gifts.”

“I think you _are_ the gift, Poppet,” she said, with a twinkling grin, as Hermione dug through the purple tissue paper and her hand closed on cool leather.

Like a Russian nesting doll, there was a bag inside the bag – but, this time, a _fancy_ bag. As she pulled it out by the thick handle, she could discern its shape, tapered to elegant points on the bottom. The leather was pressed in an alligator pattern, and the clasp was a golden B. It was, as seemed to be the theme of her life lately, blood red. 

“Oh!” Narcissa breathed. She, without Hermione noticing, had floated over to inspect the gift, her hand flat on her chest in amazement. 

“Hermione – this is _Balenciaga.”_

“I…I don’t know what that means,” she stammered, looking to Lucius, who rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know what the equivalent would be in galleons,” she said, running her finger down the side of it lovingly, “but in Muggle terms, this might be a £3000 bag.” 

“Oh sweet _Merlin!!!_ ” Hermione shrieked. She thought she might go into cardiac arrest. 

Draco slapped his knee and chortled in laughter. 

“Good gods – that’s a far cry from what the Weasel used to get you, I’d imagine, if his ape brain remembered Christmas at all – OUCH Harry what was that for?”

Harry, nodding at Hermione in sympathy, had just elbowed his boyfriend in the ribs.

Hermione, after nodding back at Harry, opened the purse to see a zipper pocket, a longer strap – which would be useful – and a letter, sealed with an elegant A in red wax.

“Ooh ooh ooh ooh, this is so exciting,” Draco provoked. “Read it aloud then, Granger,” he directed, not noticing his father rubbing his own temples in concentric circles.

Hermione popped open the envelope and opened up the card, hesitantly. 

“Draco, I have no idea what he might have written in here – ” 

“Nope, nope, I require entertainment from the plebs – _panem et circenses_. Proceed!”

Narcissa, sitting back down and trying to stifle her laughter, was not helping at all.

Hermione sighed, lifted the letter, and read out loud.

“ _ **‘Krasavitsa’**_ ,” she began, speaking the endearment before she thought to edit it out.

“Cross feets? What the hell does that mean?” he asked, before taking a sip of his cider.

“It is…” she stumbled. “It’s a sort of greeting where he’s from.”

“Ah, very well then, immigrant chatter, I suppose – go on then.”

Lucius, seeming to have given up on life by this point, had slumped down in his chair.

“‘ **I have noticed** ,’” she continued, “‘ **that your little beaded handbag with the supposedly undetectable extension charm is, being advanced in age, somewhat tattered, so I hope you do not mind that I took it upon myself to replace it. The same charm has been applied to this purse, and I could not help myself** – ’”

She cast a furtive glance over to her godmother to avoid reading the next part out loud. 

**As you know damn well what you do to me when you wear red** , he had written.

Hermione took a steadying breath before she went on reading.

“‘ **I owed you something of this ilk since, always – and especially now – you carry my own heart with you. Happy Christmas, _L’venok_.’”**

He had signed it with his given name, but she left that out of the recitation, as well.

“Awwwwwww,” cooed Harry. “He seems right besotted, Hermione.”

“He’s a smooth one, Granger, I’ll give him that. Damn good line if there ever was one.”

“I do think it’s quite sweet – ” began Narcissa, before the irate interjection of Lucius.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a _Bal-en-ci-aaaa-ga_ ,” he spat, wrinkling up his nose.

Draco and Harry burst out laughing while Narcissa, reaching over to comfort him, sang, “Oh, Darling! You know I would not have traded these sapphire earrings for the world…”

Amidst the happy din, Hermione held the purse close to her chest and felt an odd Russian-shaped hole in her universe, a new ache in the depth of her bones. She adored the gift – both beautiful and practical – but she wished that she could run right back into the lean, strong arms of the man who had sent it to her. 

She knew it was going to be a long week.

<> <> <> <> <>

An hour later, Draco was laying on his back next to the tree, his hands behind his head. He was languishing in a rather exquisite fit of pouting – having learned from the best, with Lucius as a father – after Harry had said his goodbyes and left to go be with his only remaining blood relatives for the rest of the day at Privet Drive. 

“I don’t bloody understand why he feels obligated to spend even a millisecond of time with the people who treated him so horrendously for all those years,” Draco whined.

Lucius had disappeared, she knew not where, but Narcissa was diplomatic as usual.

“Family can be…complicated,” she said, still perched in her leather chair. Hermione knew that statement, coming from Narcissa, was an enormous understatement.

“I’ve got half a mind to _complicate_ the hell out of Vernon’s face with a right hook sometime,” Draco responded. “He and Petunia are still right proper nightmares.”

“But,” Hermione interjected, “I think it’s more for Dudley that he goes, Draco, and for Dudley’s children. They managed to form a rapport over the last few years – ”

“ _Eh hem_ ,” she heard come from over her shoulder.

Lucius was standing there, still in his green silk pajamas, looking a little awkward. Without preamble, he lifted his arm towards her. In his hand was a small black box.

“I…I have been thinking of what I wanted to say, when I gave this to you.”

“Oh Lucius!” Hermione breathed, standing up and turning to face him. “You have already done too much with the magnificent dress!”

“Actually my dear,” Narcissa explained, “The dress was solely from me. This,” she said, smiling up at her husband, “is your present from Lucius.”

Hermione, overawed, reached out to take the box from him. She looked over at Draco, who was sitting up now and also smiling. Whatever this was, they were all in on it.

Hermione opened the little black box to find a golden ring. She recognized instantly what was on it: a miniaturized, simplified version of the letter “M” from the Malfoy family crest. As she pulled it out of the box, she could read the family motto – _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ – inscribed around the inside of the band.

“Lucius,” she breathed, touched beyond measure. “I don’t know what to – ”

“Poppet,” he cut her off, taking a step towards her. “I know that you will have mixed feelings about wearing this, especially considering the motto, but if you would be so kind as to lend me your ear for a moment before you decide. This…it’s a family heirloom, something my grandfather, Septimus, gave to my grandmother.”

She looked up at him, tears swimming in her eyes. She could not prevent them.

“I am fully aware that – considering my past – ‘purity will always conquer’ might not sit right with you, my dear. But I think of that word, ‘purity,’ so differently now.” 

He paused as Narcissa stood, wearing a soft smile, to stand by his side. He blinked rapidly, taking in a ragged breath and reaching for his wife’s hand.

“And…I know of no one more _pure_ than you, Hermione – pure in your pursuit of knowledge, pure in the fierceness of your loyalty, and pure in your – ” 

Narcissa rubbed his back as he pressed his lips together, stifling…something. 

“ – forgiveness.”

As Lucius continued, Hermione placed the ring on her right hand. It fit perfectly.

“Knowing – everything – I had done. And everything you suffered here. The fact that you – ” he shook his head, his voice shaky. “ – have blessed us with the boon of your presence in our lives. I – oh, snallygasters. I thought I knew what I wanted to say and, now, I possess insufficient vernacular. But, Poppet, please know that it is my honor, and my privilege – although I most assuredly do not deserve it – to think of you as a daughter now. And thus to me it seems only fitting that this ring should pass to you.”

Hermione’s shoulders were trembling as she covered her mouth with her right hand.

“I was so wrong – for so long. Recently, someone I cannot _stand_ did me the favor of reminding me of that,” he said. “And, blast him to hell, he was right. But I want you to have no doubts, henceforth, of how much you are appreciated in this house. Nonetheless, if you do not wish to keep the jewelry, believe me, I _completely_ understand – ” 

Hermione didn’t even let him finish his sentence before tackling him in an erratic hug, no longer able to hold back her flood of tears. She felt him hug her in return, felt Narcissa’s arms envelop them both, and then heard Draco stand up and walk towards them.

“Make room for me, sister mine,” he whispered. “Happy Christmas.”

As Hermione stood there, sniffling – utterly encompassed and buoyed by the the three of them, smelling Narcissa’s juniper scent – she could be nothing but grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: ya sdayus’ = "I give up"
> 
> • The "forest animal" creed Antonin references at one point is Thumper's Law from Disney's Bambi.
> 
> • The last thing that Antonin says to Pansy is, on my end, a reference to the "Faithfulness Verse" by Rudolf Steiner. Steiner was an educational philosopher, writer, and anthroposophist who started what are, in America, known as the Waldorf Schools (in England I believe they are called Steiner Schools). Here is the verse:
> 
> https://vibrationstravel.wordpress.com/2013/10/04/faithfulness-by-rudolf-steiner/#:~:text=No%20illusion%2C%20no%20deception%20shall,the%20protective%20powers%20of%20angels.
> 
> • This is what I based Hermione's Christmas present from Narcissa on:
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07W6LJW92/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o05_s00?ie=UTF8&th=1&psc=1
> 
> This dress will come back in a later chapter.
> 
> • This is the Balenciaga bag that Antonin charms and gives to Hermione for Christmas:
> 
> https://www.balenciaga.com/en-us/hourglass-small-top-handle-bag-dark-red-5935461LRGM6211.html
> 
> • Panem et circenses, meaning "bread and circuses", is a term that comes up whenever you study Roman history at all, basically referring to a perceived necessity for superficial entertainment for the masses.
> 
> • Next chapter shows a message from Antonin, an update on Hermione's parents, the reaction of Millicent to all of this, and a mysterious conversation between Lucius and Rabastan at the manor.
> 
> • As always, thanks to all of you who have stayed, as Thorfinn says to Hermione, "ride or die" with this fic despite the more spaced-out update schedule. I am writing some chapters currently that, well...I'm really excited to see your reaction to them. Sending you all lots of love, always, and hoping your March has started out smoothly! <3


	24. "Your People Are My People"

<> <> <> <> <>

In the early hours of the morning, as the sky was barely lightening before the sun climbed past the Alps, Antonin Dolohov was in his Swiss hotel room, dreaming.

More accurately, he was having a nightmare. 

It was one of several nightmares, in fact, that seemed to haunt him on rotation. They never changed, and he never had the power to know them for what they were, to remove himself from their clammy grasp. 

This one played out like they all did – as a series of commands, guiding him through a memory that he wished he could obliviate from his own skull.

_Turn the page of the book – you are almost done. Your father will be proud of you when he and your mother return. You are holding a collection of short stories he gave you, by Chekhov. Now, you are about to finish the last one, “The Bet,” about a lawyer who accepts a wager that sees him locked away with a vast horde of books for fifteen years._

_(This does not seem so bad to you, Antoshka. But you are a bookish child.)_

_Lift your face up to the clattering door as your babushka stands – backlit, breathless, and bug-eyed – in the doorway of your cabin._

_Hear her declare, “My dolzhny uyti!!!”_

_Watch her stomp into the house, not even caring to knock the snow off of her boots._

_(This should have been the first sign to you that something is terribly wrong.)_

_Be unmoved, full of doubt. Squint at her. Even as a child, there is a severity to you._

_Ask her, “Gde moi mama i papa?”_

_Feel her dig her arthritic fingers into your shoulders._

_See her smile, for once a false smile, as she says, “My sobirayemsya v puteshestviye.”_

_Follow her instructions._

_Stuff your books, your clothing, your toothbrush, your soap, your hand-drawn picture of Laika (the martyr dog of outer space), whatever you can into your charmed rucksack as your babushka makes a frantic dash for food, then calls you to her side._

_Watch as, in a last-second decision, she grabs your mother’s sacred hide and antlers from the place where they hang over the fireplace, for some reason stopping to save the artifacts of the daughter-in-law she had never quite been sure about._

_(This is when you *do* realize that something is terribly wrong.)_

_Listen, just before your babushka holds you tight and apparates you away, to the sound of shouting, belligerent men, marching towards your home._

_Weeks later, find your way back, from the nature preserve where she has hidden you._

_Find your way back, yes, to see that there is nothing left of them, not even bones – nothing of his laughter, nothing of her knowing smile, nothing of his deep voice as he read to you or taught you multiplication tables, nothing of her small, quick hands as she tucked you in or kneaded rye bread, nothing of the way they looked at one another. Nothing but a charred, open metal can, the label burned off._

_Never forget that it had been an empty can of breakfast caviar._

_Never forget that they went to market that day because you asked them to._

When Antonin woke, sitting up straight in bed, panting, sweating, he had to remind himself, several times, that he was not back there, looking down in rage – a rage that would alter the flow of his life – at the snow-covered ruins of his home. He was in Switzerland, about to walk into the shower and get ready for another round of conference panels. He was in a king-sized bed, with no one but his faithful dog – who had jumped up on the mattress, sensing his distress, and was looking at him with canine concern.

He reached out to pet Mishka's ear with one hand as her tongue lolled out of her mouth. With the fingers and thumb on his other hand, he rubbed his tired face as he wished, not for the first time, that his lioness was with him.

He missed her _far too much_ for having only been "together," if he could call it that, for less than a week.

But then again it seemed that he had been missing her for his entire life.

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the compulsion to _do_ something, something he could perhaps arrange before the first panel – something small, but foolish and romantic nonetheless.

He chuckled, to no one in particular, about how Lucius had said he would ruin her.

It was already the other way around.

<> <> <> <> <>

“So, let me get this straight, ‘cause this tea be all kinds of confusing,” said Gabi, impaling a piece of teriyaki chicken with her fork. “You…and Putorana…are now dating.”

“Sort of,” Hermione said, closing her own to-go container. This time, back at work the Monday after Christmas, it had been her turn to grab their food. “I mean, yes?”

“And he made you sign some kind of old-timey contract that says you _have_ to date at least six months. But in return he’s going to get your parents’ memories back.”

“Yeeessss,” she intoned, nodding. “He’s…old-world European and…traditional?”

“AND he sent you a fucking Balenciaga handbag for Christmas,” continued Gabi, pointing to the shiny red leather purse which was perched on the edge of the desk.

“He did indeed,” she returned, knocking the container into the trash.

“So what you’re saying is that you did, in fact, secure that bag.”

“I’m…I’m still not sure what that phrase means, Gabi, but I _think_ so?”

“AND the dick is major.”

“Oh, yes, indubitably.”

“Like, major, _major_ dickage.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Like, as in, fucking mind-blowing, ‘Jesus-Take-the-Wheel’ level dick.”

“Like, as in, ‘I’m not sure how I will possibly survive without it until Friday’ level dick,” Hermione replied, shameless in her despondency. 

Before they had parted ways, in response to the laboratory break-in crisis which had depleted the necessary ingredients for the mental regeneration spell, Antonin had proposed a plan: that, as he made the required trips around the world to re-gather the spell components, Hermione would, whenever possible, accompany him. She had enthusiastically agreed, and their first excursion was this weekend. She had just managed to get the coming Friday off from work, with extreme, almost laughable ease, because she was rather famous in her wing of the ministry for _never_ asking for any vacation. The Wizard Resources officer had looked at her, when she had asked, as if she had told him that the four horsemen of the apocalypse had appeared in the foyer.

As much as she had tried to wheedle it out of him, Antonin was stubborn in keeping their destination a surprise. All she knew was that it was somewhere in the United States. He had told her to dress warmly, with comfortable footwear.

“I mean,” said Gabi, breaking into her reverie, “I see this as an absolute win.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair and shrugged her shoulders.

“But there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Hermione froze.

“Sis, I know you,” admonished Gabi, swirling her now-empty fork in the air. “Lying is not your gig. I can tell you are leaving out some drops of the tea, for whatever reason.”

There was nothing Hermione could say to that. 

She was _never_ a good liar, and to Gabi least of all. 

“Look,” she continued, closing the lid on her own food container. “I’m not gonna press you for it, whatever it is. Just know that I’m always here for you if you need me, okay?”

Hermione, smiling in gratitude, reached across the desk to squeeze her friend’s hand.

“Gabi…you are the jewel in the crown.”

“I know,” she responded, patting the side of her teased, half-up half-down hairdo – but then, suddenly, looking quite pensive. “Girl, by the way…about your parents…”

But a particular Irish lilt interrupted them before she could finish her thought.

“‘Mione,” they heard Seamus call from down the hallway. “There’s a wee package for you up here – a magigram. Haven’t a baldy notion who sent it,” he yelled.

“I have a baldy notion!” Gabi yelled back. “It’s her NOVIOOOOO!!!”

“Bollocks, Gabi, did the whole office really need to – ”

“Well Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Seamus uttered, having entered their office with the box. “He must be fookin’ loaded to have sent a magigram package all the way from…”

“I’m guessing Switzerland,” Hermione said, with a grin, holding out her hand for the package. She had been missing Antonin a rather embarrassing amount for only having spent one night with him, and not just for his previously discussed physical equipment and capabilities – but she wasn’t ready to admit that to Gabi or even herself yet.

When Hermione struggled with opening the taped box, Gabi – always prepared, of course – slid a Gerber tactical knife across the surface of the desk. 

Once Hermione cut the tape and got the lid open, she saw, nestled in the cardboard, a bouquet of white flowers tied with a white velvet ribbon.

“Jaysis what fookin’ waste,” Seamus lamented. “No offense, ‘Mione, but what a melter! Got more money than sense, spending all that just to send flowers.”

“Seamus don’t sleep on no flowers honey,” said Gabi, who had removed her nail file and was attending to the nail on her index finger. “Bitches love flowers.”

Seamus made an odd drooping expression with the corners of his mouth, indicating serious consideration of the statement, then winked at Gabi.

“I’ll have to remember that,” he responded, before striding out of the room.

Gabi and Hermione simply looked at each other for a few seconds, blinking.

“Girl, is he – ”

“Gabi, I have been TELLING YOU, he is NOT just being friendly – ”

“Like does he wink at everybody sis? I just think I’m seeing what I wanna see.”

“He does NOT wink at ANYONE! This is becoming a _thing!”_

All of these phrases, and more, were rushed back and forth between the women in conspiratorial whispers, until Gabi pointed her newly-filed nail at the flowers in the box.

“MY THIRST is not the issue right now. We gotta get those little _flores_ in some water before they die. What are they, anyway? They look kinda…sus.”

Hermione knew what Gabi meant, but loved the blossoms all the same. The white petals had a fuzzy quality to them, almost like lamb’s ear, as she ran her fingers over them. When she lifted them out of the box, she saw a small card placed underneath.

“These are edelweiss, Gabi,” explained Hermione. “They grow in the Alps, but he must have found these in a shop somehow, as I don’t think it’s their season.”

“Girl, what that piece of paper say?” Gabi said, with a mischievous giggle.

“You’re as bad as Draco!” 

She’d told her friend about her Christmas with the Malfoys, and the golden signet ring shone on her right ring finger as she lifted the card to read it aloud.

“‘… **may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever** ,’” Hermione read aloud. 

She had not expected him, of all people, to quote a muggle musical. It made her smile.

There was more on the card, which she did not recite.

**Everything here is worthless without you. Friday cannot come soon enough.**

**Yours,  
Antonin**

Gabi had already procured something called a Mason Jar from her purse (“are you sure _I’m_ the one with the extension charm?” Hermione asked), and Hermione went out into the water fountain in the hallway to fill it. As she stood there, listening to the flow of water trickling into the glass container, she reflected on how the edelweiss delivery had considerably brightened a day that had felt somewhat odd, with everyone trying, sometimes failing, to get back into the rhythm of working after the holiday – and also without the usually frequent window visits from Huginn and Muninn. Hermione knew that Thorfinn was in Switzerland, too. She had never been there, but had read about it extensively, of course, and understood the majesty of the Alps to be breathtaking beyond all imaginings. Antonin was probably just being sweet in his card, but she knew, considering his surroundings, that his compliment was an enormous one.

Little did Hermione know that the day was about to get even more odd.

When she walked back into the office, removed the white ribbon, and placed the blooms in the jar, Gabi had not yet gone back to her own desk. She was still sitting on the other side of Hermione, her hands folded, her lips pursed in uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Gabi…what’s wrong?” she asked, sitting back down across from her.

Gabi, before speaking, slowly removed her smartphone from her purse.

“I…wasn’t sure whether to show you this or not.”

“Show me what?” Hermione asked, the anxiety bubbling in her stomach lining.

Gabi laid her hands flat on the metal surface of the desk, taking a breath.

“When was the last time you checked in with your parents?”

In an instant, the speed of Hermione’s heartbeat seemed to double.

Gabi knew that Hermione would sometimes use muggle computers to, from a distance, check up on her mum and dad, just to glean what information Google could give her and reestablish that they were alive and well in Australia. It usually made her relieved and sad at the same time. She had not, however, looked them up in a couple of months now.

“Are they – ”

“They’re fine, _chiquita_. I should have lead with that. My bad, honestly,” Gabi clarified, holding up one palm, her eyes briefly looking down to note the cholinergic uticaria rash Hermione could feel creeping up past her white, button-up blouse to her neck. 

“It’s just…” She sighed. “I found something when I was relaxing over the break, in my pajamas, watching YouTube, you know. Or maybe you don’t. But, anyway…I guess what I’m asking is…if I had found a video with them in it, would you want to watch it?”

Hermione was so flabbergasted that she could not form a response.

“You said they go by Monica and Wendell Wilkins now, right?” Gabi continued.

“…yes,” Hermione finally replied, in a weak, quiet voice. “How did you remember that?”

Gabi shrugged, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re my friend, _mija_. Your people are my people.”

<> <> <> <> <>

The title of the video series was _Living Big in a Tiny House._

“Why were you even watching this, Gabi?” asked Hermione.

The two women had scooted their chairs close together, snuggling like sisters at a sleepover, despite being at work, and were sharing Gabi’s phone screen.

“I watch it, like, all the time, every episode, no cap – on God,” she responded. “It’s just really peaceful, you know? All the minimalism, people giving up on all the shit from their old lives to downsize and, like, focus on what’s important. It started in New Zealand, but they go all over the world now. Not gonna lie, I would love to have a tiny house one day…”

The clip started with the camera following a tall, muscular, curly-haired, effusively positive gentleman named Bryce Langston as he introduced the guests of the day.

_“Sometimes, I really feel that the world around us continues to be more hectic and more complicated, and so many of us are truly craving simplicity.”_

In his adorable kiwi accent, it sounded like _“heekteek”_ and _“seempleecity”._

“So,” Hermione whispered, “you’re telling me it has nothing to do with Bryce Langston.”

Gabi shrugged, taking bites from another 70% cacao New Mexican Eldora chocolate bar which she had pulled, of course, from her purse. 

“I mean, it might have a little bit to do with Bryce Langston. Bitch. But shut the fuck up or you’re gonna miss your mom and dad.”

_“And here in Queensland, Australia, that is exactly what this one couple from Great Britain discovered when they made the decision to invest in a tiny house on wheels.”_

As Gabi offered Hermione a piece of the chocolate, and Hermione gratefully accepted, the blithe background music swelled and the camera panned over to a small rectangular house, nestled amongst tall green trees and bathed in dappled sunlight. There was a lovely covered porch, constructed from some kind of a reddish wood – Hermione was unfamiliar with Australian flora – with a comfortable-looking sitting area, a grill, and a large bar with a long, sliding window that opened to the inside kitchen. The picture switched to the logo for the show, and then, before Hermione knew it, Bryce, his hand outstretched, was enthusiastically approaching her mother and father. 

A chill wracked her entire body, almost as if she had a fever.

Instantly, she felt Gabi’s arm wrapping around her shoulders.

_“Hi, Monica and Wendell, g’day! How are you?”_

_“Right chuffed to meet you, Bryce! Welcome, thanks for coming!”_

_“It’s so nice to meet YOU, too, and SUPER cool to see this beautiful home…”_

It was _them_ , she knew, as their lively conversation with the host continued. There was no doubt. As she hugged Gabi back, thankful as ever for her support, she was – on some rational level – relieved to see how healthy they both looked. Her father, in a stylized black tee that spelled out “THE GRILLFATHER,” had lost what remained of his hair but had actually lost some weight, as well, and her mother, in a cream-colored linen blouse and khaki shorts, looked hale and happy, with color in her cheeks and the sun shining in her golden brown hair. They both sported genuine, bright smiles. It was just surreal to be watching this interaction and knowing, with the hard, cacophanous certainty of a piano falling down a flight of stairs, that she had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

_“So, tell me a little bit about yourselves and how you got into the tiny house lifestyle.”_

At this point, the two of them were sitting, hand in hand, on the blue couch inside the home, which also somehow converted into a storage container.

 _“Well, after I retired from dentistry back home in England,”_ her father explained, _“we both just got it into our heads that we wanted to move to Australia. Kind of out of nowhere, actually, but we both just somehow KNEW that was meant to be our next step.”_

It absolutely was not out of nowhere, but Hermione was the only one who knew that.

_“We never had any children – ”_

Upon hearing this statement, there was a slight, barely perceptible spasm in her mother’s face, almost as if, on a base, bioligical level, there was a part of her…

_“ – and our parents had all passed on, so there was nothing holding us back.”_

Something about her father’s casual statement – “ _nothing holding us back_ ” – burrowed into the structure of Hermione’s subconscious like a termite, the damage of which would only be apparent months later. 

But in that moment, she and Gabi continued to watch as “Monica and Wendell Wilkins”, once “Rose and Nicholas Granger,” gave Bryce a wholly pleasant tour of their kitchen, their sleeping loft with the skylight, and their bathroom ( _“Sorry, no composting toilet for me – that was a step too far,_ ” her mother explained, laughing). She could even see that her father had hung some of his framed butterflies up on the walls.

“ _And so what does the future hold for you both now?_ ” Bryce inquired, with a wide grin.

The finale of the video showcased the two of them back on their covered porch, drinking glasses of red wine in the late afternoon sun.

“ _Honestly, hopefully, a lot more travel, and exploring, and…living life, and enjoying it_ ,” Rose answered, beaming at Nicholas as he reached an arm around her waist.

“ _We’re not worried about the hustle and bustle of daily life lately_ ,” he said. “ _We’re able to relax together, problem solve together, just BE together, and I think – ”_

“ _Make the most of every day? Not promised tomorrow, so, gotta live for the now.”_

Her mother and father, who had no idea how close they had, in fact, come to having no more tomorrows, could still be seen in the last shot – a slow, steady zoom outward from their tiny house, with Bryce’s bubbly narration in the background.

_“Wendell and Monica truly have built themselves SUCH a beautiful home here in Queensland, but more than just a home they’ve built an entire lifestyle around it, one that offers them more financial freedom, more connection with nature and one another, and things that are innately important to them in life. And that is such a beautiful thing.”_

Gabi squeezed the phone’s off button with her thumb, placing it back on the desk.

“You okay?” she asked.

Hermione was a little surprised that she was not crying. Perhaps, she thought, that would come later, when she was alone in her bedroom with her books, her pillows, and her miniature potions lab, none of which would offer any comment.

“I…I think so,” she said with a sigh, standing and looking down at her friend. “Gabi…thank you, so much, for bringing this to me. If we get all the spell components, having this video will make it much easier to track them down. Thank you – truly. I don’t deserve you.”

Gabi nodded, a sad smile on her face, and said, “Yeah you do.”

Gabi picked up the chair to put back in her own desk area, and as she re-formed her usual work nest, lighting her saint candle and arranging her paperwork, she said, “Are you…were you glad to see, at least, that they’re, like, happy and shit?”

Hermione walked towards the door, to go get some water from the fountain for herself. She suddenly felt like speaking was far more difficult than it should logically be, like the inside of her throat was the surface of Arrakis, parched of all moisture.

When she reached the doorframe, she turned around and rasped, “Yes. Of course.”

Hermione _was_ glad. It was not a lie. 

But at the same time she felt, for reasons she lacked the will to examine, like an ice pick had been driven into her chest.

<> <> <> <> <>

That night, Hermione sat alone with her wand in her sparse, personality-less living room and attempted to do something she doubted would even work.

She had already completed the somewhat depressing task of writing Viktor one last letter, informing him of everything that had happened over the last couple of weeks and sending him her genuine, enduring best wishes. Perhaps he would not even care – perhaps _he_ was the one who had returned her last two letters, and not his agent Ivan, and he was done with her – but with everything they had shared, she felt compelled to inform him that she had entered an arrangement with another man, so that the information did not catch him by surprise if he did happen to show up out of nowhere.

Now, it was time to send another communication, although, due to the risky mode of conveyance, she was even less sure that her intended target would receive this one.

Millicent was still on a late shift at Gringott’s, and neither of them currently had a familiar – so there was no one to witness, she reasoned, if she failed at this entirely.

Could a messenger patronus go from England to Switzerland? 

She truly had no idea. 

There was nothing written that said it was impossible, per se. It was just that she had only ever _seen_ the messenger spell cast within the confines of England. Could her otter cross an ocean? Was this a complete waste of time and magical energy?

Should she simply convince Antonin to invest in a muggle smartphone, like the one Gabi had, so that they could send “texts” or “snaps” back and forth? 

The answer to all three of those questions was “maybe.” But, she thought as she stood and raised her wand, it certainly could not hurt to try the patronus for now.

She could not help but remember Lupin in that moment – the sandy hair that always seemed to droop into his eyes, the gentle smile that interrupted the lines of his scars, the chocolate that permanently resided in his coat pockets. Lupin, so thoughtful, so empathetic, so nurturing, so brilliant – their best teacher, most likely. 

Lupin, who had, possibly, been killed by the man who would receive this very message.

Hermione had made a point thus far of _not_ asking about it. She was not sure she was ready yet, to know the truth. But she did know that thinking of him now, of his death, would not help her produce this patronus, so she shook herself as if trying to banish a chill and invoked the most positive memories she knew: her mother in a gingham apron, serving tea and homemade biscuits when she came home from primary school; the morning she had received her Hogwarts letter; her father sitting in the wicker chair next to her bed, reading to her as she fell asleep ( _“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known_ ”); gliding down the stairs at the Yule ball in delicate chiffon, feeling wanted for the first time in her life; sitting in Hagrid’s hut, the fire blazing, knowing safety within those round walls, with all manner of strange new creatures snuggled in his massive, swollen hands; being hugged by Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco all at once ( _“Make room for me, sister mine”_ ); and Antonin planting a worshipful path of kisses all the way up from her toes to her collarbone, as he gazed at her like she was the only thing worth having in the world –

_“Expecto Patronum!!!”_

And there it was – her otter, floating around the living room, leaving a neon blue trail.

Hermione only had one shot to record the message, and not, as she understood it, much time to speak; thus, she quickly tried to articulate her effusive gratitude, both for the purse and for the flowers. She also mentioned the video of her parents, but there was much, much more she wanted to say and withheld, not knowing if he would be alone when he got the message – or even if the message would get to him at all. She was fully aware she could have been pouring her heart out to a mailman in Brussels if this ghostly little animal failed to make it all the way to its destination. Knowing she was nearing the end of her alotted time, she simply concluded with, “Come home soon.”

Immediately, she felt like a presumptive fool. This place was not home for him – none of it was. She had not even yet _seen_ where he had come from, before England. She should not have summoned him with the words a wife would use.

But it was too late to change anything then, as the otter swam right through the wall of the apartment with a glittering bright blue _whoosh._

With a sigh, she turned around and saw Millicent, morose and deathly silent, standing in the kitchen with a whiskey glass in her silver hand. 

“I…suppose you…saw all of that,” Hermione stammered.

She felt nothing so much as silly. She knew she should have done the spell in her bedroom, but there was just so little space there, and she had wanted more room to cast. But, then again, she wondered, why should she feel ashamed?

Millicent, with her usual lack of preamble, said, “You signed it.”

Hermione, feeling like she had been caught sneaking out by her mother (which was an odd comparison to make, she realized, since she had never _done_ that), simply nodded.

Millicent nodded back, but there was no camaraderie in it. She was steeped in angst.

“Of course you did,” she spat.

She downed the shot in one gulp, slammed the glass on the counter, strode into her own bedroom, and closed the door behind her without another word.

<> <> <> <> <>

“Care for a drink?” Lucius offered, leading Rabastan Lestrange into his study.

Rabastan looked anxious, although that was not a huge departure from the norm.

Lucius found it difficult to talk to the younger Lestrange at times; Bella and her mania had once stood between them all, and, even when she did not, he found it easier to connect to Rudolphus – _Merlin preserve him_ – still serving his sentence in Azkaban. 

(Lucius recalled the horrors of Azkaban all too well – in fact, he went to great lengths throughout his day _not_ to remember them.)

But, more than all that, there was something…intangible about Rabastan. 

Lucius could not imagine why he had sent his patronus – a ball python – with a message requesting to meet with him this afternoon, but was far more curious than annoyed.

“Actually,” Rabastan began, “if you have some more of that elf made wine…I would.”

Lucius laughed. “Bipsy?”

She appeared. “Oh Hello Mr. Rabs!”

“Hello Bipsy,” Rabastan said, amiably, with a restrained wave.

“Would you be so kind,” Lucius asked, “as to fetch some of the masquerade wine – there should still be a bit left – for Mr. Lestrange and myself?”

She reappeared with almost disconcerting speed, holding two goblets. Lucius noted, with considerable guilt, how much more smoothly and harmoniously the house ran when he didn’t treat the elves like complete mongrels.

When she disappeared again, having conveyed each man his wine, they each took a seat in one of the antique chairs next to the fire, but Rabastan was quiet. His eyes darting around the large room, he seemed to have a difficult time gathering his thoughts. 

“Have you seen Roddy lately?” Lucius ventured. 

“Yes, just last week,” he answered, before taking a sip of his drink. “It’s…not pretty. But it’s different from…how it used to be, largely thanks to…Hermione, I think.”

Lucius, nodding, knew that a large part of her job had been taken up with campaigning for substantive reforms to the prison, many of which had in fact been adopted. His Poppet was damn near unstoppable when she put her mind to something.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Rabastan stammered, placing his drink on the glass end table next to his chair. “I…want to…apologize for bothering you, while you are convalescing.”

“Rab, I should say we know each other decently well enough at this point for you to address me by my first name,” Lucius declared, with a slight, patient smile. 

Rabastan nodded and smiled in return, or attempted to, placing his hands on his legs, which were tapping nervously on the hardwood floors.

“Also, it’s perfectly allright that you came. I’m much improved at present.” Begrudgingly, in his own head, he thanked Antonin Dolohov for the mystical blueberry healing potion. “And, to tell you the bitter truth, I don’t have much to _do_ these days. I’m not in prison, and I’m grateful for that,” he clarified, Roddy’s presence almost corporeal in the room. “But I don’t exactly have people lining up around the block to go to quidditch games, or brainstorm new business ideas, or work on philanthropy projects with someone like me. I lack the charm of my wife and son, and I suppose there is just...too much blood on my hands, whether it was shed _by_ my own hands or not. ‘Out, damned spot!’ and all that.”

“I know what you mean, sir,” Rabastan said, utterly forgetting to be less formal. “If not for Luna and _The Quibbler_ I wouldn’t have a job at all.”

 _Such as it is_ , Lucius jibed, in his own head.

“But,” uttered Rabastan, “I am here today because I _do_ actually need your help, sir.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow and took a drink, gesturing for Rabastan to continue. 

_This should be interesting._

“You see,” he started, leaning his elbows on his knees – which, at least for a while, ceased the tapping – and his chin on his hands. “It’s about Luna.”

“About Miss Lovegood,” Lucius repeated, having no idea where this was going.

“Yes. It’s just that…her birthday is coming up, soon. I am aware that…” Again, looking around the room, it appeared that it was taking him a while to organize what he wanted to say. “Lucius, I am in no position to ask you for this, I know. Your house…had to witness some…terrible things. But, for some reason, and I don’t really understand this, but Luna, in her way…well, your house is special to her because…it’s where we met.”

Lucius, holding his glass in midair, felt like a complete, blundering idiot for not having put two and two together before. He had been buried six feet deep in his own misery during that nightmare of a time that he had never realized something positive had come out of it.

“When,” he clarified, slowly, “she was imprisoned here.”

“Yes. I was assigned to take care of her, and…” Rabastan shrugged. “Even with the bars between us, I – ” He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, then seemed to take a steadying breath. “That’s why I made sure to go and find her, first thing, as soon as I got out of Azkaban. We had an understanding. But…as to the manor, although most women…would feel…differently, you must understand that – in Luna’s mind – this place is oddly romantic. Because she says that it’s where she fell in love with me. She likes coming here, you see. And, most of all, she likes your gardens.”

“My gardens?” Lucius queried. “I’m touched that someone has paid attention to them.”

Lucius had always possessed a green thumb, but over the last few years he had especially thrown himself into horticulture, since, as he had just admitted to Rabastan, he had little else to do. Narcissa, when she saw him outside in his gardening hat, his usually immaculate hands in the dirt, sometimes jokingly called him “Mr. Mendel”; he enjoyed creating hybrids, breeding different plants to try and find new colors, new attributes, possibly even new species. But he thought it had largely gone unnoticed.

“Oh, yes!” Rabastan answered. “She is…quite awed by you. She says you are a master.”

“I am sincerely glad it brings her happiness,” Lucius responded, with a genuine smile.

“At the Ottery, we…can grow _some_ things, such as snargaluff, gurdyroots, some berries here and there, a pair of crabapple trees, and of course – ”

“The dirigible plums,” Lucius finished for him, remembering the ones Luna had brought to the room in St. Mungo’s when she had come to visit them.

“Yes, precisely. She does love her own garden. I think it helps her feel…connected to her father, still, since they spent many hours working on it together when he was alive. But the Ottery…possesses a type of soil that isn’t… _welcoming_ to many flowers. Thus, your own yards, replete with blooms in the springtime, are…heavenly, to her. And…she has oft noted that there’s a particular ice blue rose which you are able to grow here. That rose of yours is…her _favorite_ flower, beyond all others in creation.”

“Yes,” Lucius concurred. “I think I know the one.” 

It had been a pet project of his. He had named that one after his wife – “Narcissa’s Rose” – because he had been attempting to capture the color of her eyes in its petals. He could never get it precisely right, but it was a lovely blossom all the same.

Rabastan nodded and, seemingly requiring liquid courage, reached over to grab the goblet and downed the rest of his wine in several swift gulps before continuing.

“Lucius…I’ve bloody well mangled what I’m trying to ask you today. But, essentially, there is something…with which I would be _immensely_ grateful for your assistance – and it would be of the utmost importance that you keep it a secret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: My dolzhny uyti!!! = "We must leave!" or "We have to go!"; Gde moi mama i papa? = "Where are my mother and father?"; My sobirayemsya v puteshestviye = "We are going on a trip/journey"
> 
> • Living Big in a Tiny House is REAL, and Bryce Langston is a pure, undiluted source of serotonin who must be protected at all costs. I, like Gabi, have watched a ridiculous amount of episodes. This is the link to the episode I based Hermione's parents' tiny house on, even lifting some of the dialogue from it (just to give credit where credit is due):
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2_zGa1sAhE&t=903s
> 
> • Gabi, whether consciously or not, makes a vague reference to Ruth 1:16: "And Ruth said: 'Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'" (King James Version)
> 
> • Eldora chocolate is real, is located in Albuquerque, and is the one obstacle between me and giving up sweets entirely:
> 
> https://eldorachocolate.com/
> 
> • The passage Hermione's dad reads to her is from *A Tale of Two Cities* by Charles Dickens.
> 
> • Lucius, when speaking to Rabastan, briefly references Lady Macbeth's final soliloquy from *Macbeth.*
> 
> • I am hoping the next chapter will be as fun for you to read as it was for me to write. Hermione gets a one-of-a-kind tour of the MediMagic building from Pansy and, as an unexpected addition, everyone's favorite Viking berserker. 
> 
> • In regard to the return of the smut – please do not fear! It is coming! I know that the wait is as difficult for you as it is for Hermione and Antonin, so, in recognition of your patience, I am actually writing four smut scenes (of different types and moods – at least one of which involves a more feral Antonin that some of you seem to adore) pretty much back to back, following their Big American Adventure. Thus, I promise you that I am doing everything I can to make the wait worth it.


	25. "My Own True Love Was the Flower of Them All"

<> <> <> <> <>

It was four o’clock in the afternoon on Wednesday the 28th of December; the sky was grey as a stone, and, as Hermione made her way through the lobby of the MediMagic building once again, an unpleasantly familiar escort was waiting for her at the elevator.

“Boss says I have to be nice to you now,” muttered Pansy Parkinson, in between obnoxious smacks of her chewing gum. 

Even from where Hermione stood, she could smell the spearmint. 

“So you can stop shivering in your little grey boots,” Pansy jeered, looking down at her own bright red fingernails, spreading them wide apart for inspection.

Hermione wondered what would happen if Pansy ever met Gabi.

This would not have been the tour guide of Hermione’s choice. However, when she and Antonin had discussed his desire for her to explore the labs (ideally after she left work one day) while he was abroad in Switzerland, to get a better idea of how the company operated behind the scenes, he conceded that Pansy was the employee – aside from Thorfinn – who possessed the most knowledge about the firm. He had also indicated, twice now, that he planned to administer some kind of “talking-to” in response to Pansy’s previous behavior – which, Hermione now gathered, had indeed occurred.

“Well,” Hermione responded, standing tall and putting on a brave smile, “I appreciate that. I’d like to see a nice version of you, Pansy.” And she meant it.

The other woman, leaning against the wall, shoved her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and shrugged. The aggressive chewing of the gum reminded Hermione of Violet Beauregard, although Pansy’s personality – at least, what Hermione had experienced of it – was more akin to Veruca Salt. She was wearing, roughly, the same outfit today as she had been before; Hermione wondered if she had multiple white blouses and black leather skirts or simply magicked the same uniform every day to be fresh and crisp.

“Yeah, well, as long as you keep him happy, I have no reason not to be.”

Pansy held no clipboard this afternoon, Hermione noted, as she wondered why the other woman had not pushed the button for the elevator yet. In fact, she was staring up at the cieling, shifting her weight between her feet, still in her black leather stilettos.

“…sorry,” she mumbled.

“…what?” Hermione genuinely thought she must have misheard her.

Someone else came by to get on the lift – a stocky woman with a paisley headscarf – and Hermione stepped out of the way as Pansy sighed, folding her arms.

“The thing about your parents. That was…low, even for me.”

Hermione blinked, needing a few seconds to process that this was an actual apology.

Pansy’s eyes flitted around the lobby, everywhere but to Hermione’s face, as she waited for some kind of a reply, filling the time by spitting out her gum in a nearby trash bin. The way Hermione saw it, in that instant, there were two distinct responses she could give to this gesture, which (from someone as crabby as Pansy) was a fairly sizeable olive branch. She could accept the branch – or she could set the branch on fire.

But, if she did, she would not receive the tour that she was sincerely wanting.

Thus, she swallowed her pride, took a deep breath, and held out her hand.

“What do you say we start over?”

Pansy, shock writ large on her elegant features, actually gripped the proffered hand and shook it, firmly, without a single smarmy word. She then nodded, pushed the button for the lift, and stepped inside it, Hermione following right behind.

“You know, I thought that you might have…harboured a tendre for your boss,” Hermione ventured as they ascended, feeling an nonsensical compulsion to open up to her.

“For Mr. P? _Ew._ Gross.”

Hermione chuckled.

“I mean,” Pansy continued as they came to a brief stop, “no offense or anything. It’s just that I look at him as more of a…well, not as _that_ , for certain.”

The doors opened and the woman Hermione had seen before, the heavy-set brunette with the headscarf, entered the lift with two other ladies, all three of them in lab coats. Hermione noted that they distinctly avoided making eye contact with Pansy.

“No,” Pansy went on, staring daggers at the new inhabitants of the lift. “You don’t need to watch out for me, Granger. But…AS FOR SOME OF THESE OTHER BITCHES,” she yelled, heedless of how the other passengers were only standing mere feet from her mouth, “you might want to keep a weather eye. They’re horny on main 24/7,” she sneered, before the other three women, looking guilty and harried, all scurried out of the lift as soon as it was open – like white hens shuffling out of a coop.

“But,” Pansy clarified, as the two of them stepped out into the hallway, “he’s perpetually oblivious about it, so don’t worry on his end. Plus I think you’ve somehow managed to get him wrapped around your little finger in an incredibly short period of time.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Hermione demurred, as they walked at a leisurely pace down the corridor, “but when I brought up my fear to him, he did indicate that you might have formed an attachment to a certain goofy blonde who works around here.” It had not been difficult for Hermione to formulate a guess as to who her crush might be.

Pansy stopped, mid-corridor, and folded her arms again.

“Not bloody likely,” she grumbled. “Big oafish Dane. Attachment my arse.”

 _The lady doth protest too much, methinks_ , Hermione mused, as she laughed lightly and nevertheless held up an ameliorating hand.

“No offense on my end either, Pansy. Although – ” she began, dropping her hand. “Before we continue with the tour, I did have a question that might seem rather odd.”

Pansy, keeping her arms in the defensive position, nodded for her to continue.

“I’m sorry to ask you this, but, speaking of Thorfinn,” Hermione whispered, looking up and down the hallway, which was empty. “Was he the one who told you about…George Weasley? I was just shocked when you mentioned it, in the lift last week. I’d only told three people about it,” she said, remembering that the other two had been Gabi and a gobsmacked Harry, “and Thorfinn was the only one with which you had any interaction. It doesn’t seem like something he would do, but – ” she babbled, wringing her hands without intending to. She knew it was an awkward line of inquiry, but had not been able to restrain herself from pursuing it, now that she had the chance.

Pansy pulled Hermione’s sleeve and tugged her flush to the wall, presumably so they would be a bit more out of the way if someone needed to walk by them to the lab.

“No,” she whispered in return. “I actually _saw_ the two of you. I was at that Halloween party. You might not have recognized me – I was dressed as Snape.”

“Snape?” Hermione hissed, incredulous. “Your Halloween costume was _Severus Snape?”_

“What? Calm your tits! I adored that man.”

“Good grindylows,” Hermione muttered. “It just…seems in poor taste. He’s _dead.”_

“So are most people!” objected Pansy, with a shrug. “But, anyway, don’t get your knickers in a wad. I don’t think you were a spectacle, per se – I just happened to be in the same corner as the two of you at one point. He was right pissed, falling all over you while you somehow managed to get him out of there, so I just put two and two together.” 

She pointed at Hermione’s face, then, looking like nothing so much as Uncle Sam.

“But you had _better not_ be planning on seeing him while you’re with Mr. P.”

“Oh, HEAVENS, no!!!” yelped Hermione, reaching up with a finger of her own to gently remove Pansy’s accusatory digit from her facial bubble. “I was actually more worried for George – specifically, that Molly would flay him alive if it had become public.”

“Good. Because I still have the hydrochloric acid…”

“The WHAT?”

“BUT…seriously,” Pansy steamrolled over her. “Thorfinn may _seem_ like a complete dolt…” 

At this point, she leaned up against the wall, glancing over at the doors to the lab, seeming…wistful? Surely Pansy Parkinson was not looking _wistful._

“…but, as you should well know by now, he is more trustworthy than he appears – especially when it comes to keeping confidences. Thorfinn would never sell you out.”

“What would I never do?”

“ _FUCK!!!!”_ Pansy screamed at the top of her lungs, jumping several inches into the air as Thorfinn himself – wearing a knitted white and green ski sweater and a red toboggan hat with a pom-pom on the top – had appeared out of nowhere right beside them. 

Hermione, feeling guilty for ever doubting him, could not help but beam. 

“Thorfinn! You’re back!!!”

“That’s right! Hail your conquering hero! I’m joining you on the tour today, Princess!”

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” she could barely hear Pansy mutter.

Grinning, Thorfinn crushed Hermione in an effusive hug, swaying her from side to side, before releasing her and pulling on the overabundant cowl neck of her gray wool dress.

“It’s a shame you haven’t got any fabric here,” he teased.

“I see you have taken your own measures against the cold, though,” she giggled.

Hermione gestured up and down to his festive winter vacation outfit.

“Do you like it? I wonder if Pansy will like it. Let’s see,” he whispered.

He took a step towards Pansy, long arms outstretched once again.

“…I…want…my… _SUGAR!!!”_

However, Pansy – as if Thorfinn were a horror movie zombie rather than a handsome Viking in a fuzzy sweater – stepped backwards, shaking her head, still reeling in shock.

“What the bloody bowtruckles are you _doing_ here, Thorfinn? You’re still supposed to be at that conference in Switzerland! There was a _very_ important panel today on – ” 

“I skipped it!” he responded, not lowering his arms, seeming oddly proud of himself. 

Hermione chortled, while Pansy put her face in her hands. Thorfinn was undeterred.

“I’ve traveled long and far! I require sustenance, in the form of your sweet embrace – ”

“NO!” Pansy spat, reaching out and lightly slapping one of his imploring hands, as an old pensioner might to a dog who would not stop begging for supper scraps. “No ‘sugar’ for skippers!” she chided. “I cannot BELIEVE, Thorfinn, when I was just telling Granger you were trustworthy, that you would do something so immature – “

“Oh Petal,” he cooed. “Don’t be like that. The conference was PAINFULLY BORING. Torturously tedious, one could say – I might as well have been in Guantanamo. The boss took mercy on me and sent me back here so I could get some paperwork done.”

Pansy squinted at him then, touching a thoughtful finger to her chin.

“He didn’t trust me to give Granger this tour by myself, did he?”

“Mmmmmmmmno,” Thorfinn replied, wholly uncapable of guile in the face of her steely inquisition. “He did not. BUT IT WILL BE MORE _FUN_ THIS WAY!!!”

Pansy made a muffled screaming noise and shook her hands in the air like a Grecian widow. Once she had recovered, she glanced back at Hermione, almost resigned.

“I told you,” she snarled. “Big oafish Dane.”

“Oh!” interjected Thorfinn, completely unbothered by Pansy’s epithet. “Before I forget, Princess, the boss wanted me to give you these.”

Thorfinn dug in the pocket of his ski pants and pulled out two items, a nondescript key and a folded piece of parchment – both of which he laid in her outstretched palm. 

“Be careful with that,” he said, pointing to the key. “There are only three of them, now, and that is the third. He has one and I have the other.”

“What is it for?” Hermione asked, hearing the tap of Pansy’s impatient high heel on the tile.

“His apartment,” he replied, squinting at her as if she had lost a few brain cells in the lift.

“Oh!” she responded, blinking down at the little piece of hard, unstamped metal.

“He…just wanted you to have it in case you ever needed it,” Thorfinn clarified. “And that,” he said, lightly touching the paper, “is the code you have to punch in at the elevator panel if you want it to go all the way to the top floor.”

Hermione ignored Pansy’s irritated huff as she opened the paper to see the numbers “1380” written in what she now recognized as Antonin’s script.

Looking back and forth between Thorfinn and an increasingly annoyed Pansy, she asked, “Why these numbers in particular, out of curiosity?”

“ _Myeh myeh numbyehs myeh meyh out of myehiosity_ ,” Pansy mocked, flipping her hair. “DO YOU HAVE TO KNOW EVERYTHING, GRANGER?”

“Yes, she does,” Thorfinn responded, with a chuckle. “And to answer your question, I have no idea. Honestly. If he ever tells you, let me know. It might be random, but…”

“With him, likely not,” she finished for him.

“Are we fucking done?” Pansy snapped, stomping her stiletto.

“Ohhhhhh, Petal,” Thorfinn crooned. “Are you cranky at being left out? You know that you can have the key to _my_ apartment any time…”

Pansy uttered another frustrated, strangled noise and took in an agonized breath, while Hermione placed the key and the code into the inside zipper pocket of her red purse. When she looked up again, she saw Pansy turn around and saunter – perhaps swaying her hips a little extra, she observed – over to the metal double doors of the laboratory.

“Come on then, Hamlet,” she called, nodding at Thorfinn, dripping with derision.

It was after she had already entered the lab that Thorfinn, both of his eyebrows raising in infant hope, took Hermione by the arm and called out after her.

“…so…you’re saying…you think I’m a prince?”

<> <> <> <> <>

“I genuinely have no words,” Hermione breathed, blanketed in sheer awe.

Pansy and Thorfinn (who had, sheepishly, removed his bright red hat) had just escorted Hermione away from the workstation of a gentleman named Alistair Snork-Ripley who, over the last year, had developed an extremely promising and painless cure for blood curses. He had generously given his time to show Hermione some of his research, and he was just one of several; in general, the employees at MediMagic seemed quite friendly and eager to discuss their work, which Hermione had not expected.

As the three of them strolled through the large laboratory, hearing the alchemists and potion masters theorizing together, the chalk on the chalkboards, the chemicals bubbling, and the occasional stray magical byproduct noises – bells, rushing wind, even the call of a bird – Pansy pointed back at Alistair's work station with her thumb.

“Imagine if we had that cure hundreds of years ago,” she sighed. “Think of all the wizards and witches we could have saved. Lord Byron could have been writing another hundred years instead of falling to a blood curse at 36 in Greece, for instance.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks and it took the other two a moment to realize it.

“I thought Byron died of _sepsis,_ ” Hermione said, utterly confused. “He was a _wizard?”_

Pansy, with a smirk, retorted, “Have you even read _Manfred?_ It’s basically a diary. Ha!” she barked, looking up at Thorfinn. “Looks like she _doesn’t_ know everything.”

As she spun around and kept walking, Thorfinn just shrugged with a silly smile, then turned to follow her like a baby duck. Hermione, too stimulated by everything she had seen to even waste time or intellect on feeling defensive, fell in behind them. 

They had reached the far wall of the lab now, the one with expansive windows looking down over Diagon Alley; the last row of long tables was pressed up against them. 

She tried, fruitlessly, to stifle a blush when she suddenly remembered the feel of her back shoved against the cold, tinted windows in Antonin’s apartment. 

_Not the time, Hermione!_ she berated herself, inhaling a shaky breath.

It would be several days yet before she got to experience anything like that again.

She was distracted from her own embarrassing thirst when she noticed a curiously empty work station. Someone had written in chalk on the countertop, “R – HG.”

“I think, from what I was told, they just got everything fixed yesterday from the break-in,” Thorfinn said, approaching her. “You would never know what had happened here.”

“Fixing it was not difficult,” Pansy said, joining him. “It just took the bloody aurors a while to give us the space back, once they had done their ‘ _investigating’_ ”, she said, flexing her fingers in sarcastic quotation marks. “And now we’re all having to work late today and tomorrow to catch up on the hours we missed. Fucking _Potter_ ,” she hissed. 

She did at least have the grace to look somewhat abashed when Hermione met her eye.

“What’s your theory then, Pansy?” she inquired. “Who do you think did it?”

“Honestly? I think it’s a competitor,” she posited, shrugging, looking at Thorfinn to solicit his input. His face was blank, for which Hermione silently congratulated him. 

“There are a few copycat businesses now,” Pansy continued, “taking our model and running with it – Reparo Incorporated, HealerTech, etc. – and I think it’s industrial sabotage. I would bet money that they stole our ingredients so that they could try to do the same – ”

“Miss Parkinson? Mr. Rowle?” came an interruption from an out-of-breath young woman who had just careened into the laboratory, the doors swinging open with a bang. She had an accent similar to Seamus’s; reddish-brown, shoulder-length hair with uneven bangs; a strangely flattened nose; and a pink business suit, which, for Hermione, brought to mind unfortunate associations with Dolores Umbridge.

“Excuse me, sorry, pardon me,” she mumbled as she veered around the lab workers.

“Saoirse!” Pansy called, her brows furrowed. “Where’s the fire?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson, it’s just that – well – Clarice is here.”

Pansy’s entire demeanor seemed to change in an instant, her sardonic expression melting into surprise and something else Hermione could not initially identify.

“ _Now_?” she asked, looking up at Thorfinn, who seemed just as confused. “But I thought her appointment wasn’t until tomorrow? It’s always _Thursdays.”_

“She had – some kind of – youth league cricket game,” Saoirse huffed, bending over, her hands on her knees, still getting her breath back, “and the family asked – if they could move it – to now. I just wanted – to let you know – since she always asks for you.”

“No, no, of course. Thank you for telling us,” Pansy said, squeezing Thorfinn’s arm.

She turned around to Hermione with an unusually genuine, toothy smile.

“Well, Granger, you’ll actually get to see one of our patients this afternoon.”

<> <> <> <> <>

A short elevator trip down one floor took the three of them to one of the medical treatment areas, and, as Hermione followed Thorfinn and Pansy into room 7, she saw a small child laying flat on the table, her head propped up on a purple unicorn plushie which doubled as a pillow. She was almost aggressively blonde, with pink bows in her long, curly hair, and to Hermione’s eyes could not have been more than three years old.

When the three of them entered, the little girl gasped in sheer elation.

“Panse! PANSE!!!” she squealed, reaching out her tiny, grasping hands. Hermione could see that there was something wrong with two of the fingers on the right hand.

“My darling, my queen – I’m here, I’m so sorry,” breathed Pansy, swooping down to envelop the child in an unbridled hug. “You just surprised me today, Clarice.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” uttered the woman Hermione assumed was Clarice’s mother with a smile, as an orderly at the side of the room was arranging some beakers. The woman’s hair, once the same blonde as her daughter’s but now going silver, had been pulled back in a bun, and she reached out to squeeze Pansy’s hand. “Thank you so much for rushing down here – you know how she cherishes you.”

Pansy grinned, with not a shred of her usual malice, snuggling with the toddler. 

Hermione was completely thrown by this wholly different version of Pansy and, even if she had been called upon to speak, could not have supplied a single syllable.

“I would not miss this for all the tea in China,” Pansy intoned, booping Clarice on the nose and eliciting a giggle. “I just did not think she was old enough for cricket!”

“Oh, you know how it is,” the mother responded, rolling her eyes. “They make you get started in these club leagues so early now if you want to give them a chance to play later on at all. Of course, at this age, they pretty much just go out on the field and stand there, swinging the bat and occasionally picking their noses…”

As Thorfinn moved to lean in closer and, almost surreptitiously, placed a supporting hand on Pansy’s back, Pansy continued her astoundingly polite conversation with the mother while still hugging an adoring Clarice, feeding her crumbly pieces of a Cadbury Flake bar which had materialized from her pocket. In that instant, Hermione was struck by a stab of prescient awareness – seeing Pansy and Thorfinn huddled together, smiling, with this small girl who, at least aesthetically, could be his own child. She knew, deep in her bones, that this was a scene she would witness again. 

But for now, they were directing the child to lay back down, and the orderly – a bald gentleman Hermione had not yet seen that day – handed Pansy two pipettes of liquid, one so purple it was almost black, and the other a swirling, bright orange.

“Where Puff?” Clarice asked.

“Mishka is with Mr. P,” Thorfinn clarified, patting her small shoulder.

“Puff no come?”

“She will be sure to come next time,” Pansy soothed. “And that will be your _last_ time! You are almost DONE, my angel – you have been such a brave girl. I just need to you drink this, like always,” she said, tapping the purple unction. “Can you do that?”

“GRAPE!” Clarice squeaked, reaching out her slightly malformed hand.

“Yes, I think she can do that,” Thorfinn declared with a chuckle.

After the child downed the dark purple concoction, she rested on the unicorn pillow again and sighed, “Panse. Song please. Growing. Song, Panse.”

And then Pansy did something rather odd. As Clarice demonstrated signs of drowsiness, her arms dropping to her sides, Pansy tipped the orange potion and let it drip on to the table around the child’s face, like a halo. And then, Pansy – Pansy fucking Bitchus Maximus Parkinson herself – began to sing a _lullaby_ to the child, in a high, sweet mezzo soprano, lovelier than Hermione would ever have anticipated.

_“The trees they grow high,  
the leaves they do grow green  
Many is the time my true love I've seen  
Many an hour I have watched him all alone  
He's young,  
but he's daily growing.”_

Hermione gasped, as from the drops of orange liquid bloomed into floating, luminescent flowers – transparent, but their borders glowing in neon magnificence. Asters, peonies, morning glories, poppies, calendula, and, of course, pansies danced around the child’s face as she smiled, entranced, even while she had to fight to keep her eyes open.

_“One day I was looking o'er my father's castle wall  
I spied all the boys a-playing at the ball  
My own true love was the flower of them all  
He's young, but he's daily growing.”_

Hermione was just as transported by Clarice by the sheer beauty of it all, the sound of the voice, the song enchanting, but mournful, and the sight of the undulating, illuminated blooms. Shaking her head in awe, she looked up at Thorfinn, who pointed at Pansy.

“She brews it,” he mouthed without speaking. Every time Pansy said the word “growing”, which repeated in every verse, there seemed to be more neon blossoms.

But then the song had stopped, and Pansy was whispering, “She’s out. Let’s begin.”

She was correct: Clarice, beaten at last by the grape sleep draught, was out like a light, but the blazing flower illusions remained as Pansy and the orderly both grasped their wands and whispered a spell that Hermione could not discern. 

Hermione _could_ spy, though, the two fingers on the child’s right hand – as they, too, were “growing,” right before her eyes.

“There was a rabid thestral out on our land, and we didn’t know it,” the mother explained, seeing Hermione’s shock. “Cursed by dark magic. Could have been roaming for years – no way to know, really. Clarice was just out playing and, well, _chomp!_ He’d walked right up to her and bit both fingers clean off. We got an auror to find him and put him down, but, good gracious, it was a bloody shambles.”

“Can you imagine? Being a toddler, standing out on the heath in the sunshine and suddenly losing your fingers to something you cannot even see, blood spurting everywhere,” said Pansy, shaking her head, done with her part of the spell. 

“Luckily, she doesn’t seem to remember it, and I hope it stays that way. No one could help us, due to the curse, the black magic I mean,” the mother continued. “But Mr. P heard about our case and took us on – and look! They’ve grown back to the top knuckles now.”

“I think Pansy’s right,” Thorfinn conjectured. “One more application and she’ll be back in business, fingernails and all. She’ll be a regular cricket superstar,” he said, smiling.

Pansy leaned over to examine the new growth on Clarice’s hand, then squeezed it.

“Precious baby,” she whispered. “I’m going to miss this one.”

Hermione remembered that, just a short while ago, she had said, “I’d like to see a nice version of you, Pansy” – with no expectation that it would actually occur.

<> <> <> <> <>

“Pansy,” Hermione said, as they left the room and walked back towards the elevator. “That potion you made, with the flowers, was resplendent beyond description. And you – well, I’m not just being polite here – you have a positively _celestial_ voice.”

When it came to singing, although she loved music, Hermione herself did not feel like she could carry a tune in a bucket – so she appreciated when others could.

“I’ve been trying to tell her that,” added Thorfinn, striding on the other side of her.

Pansy shrugged as she walked, pointlessly readjusting one of her diamond stud earrings, seeming totally unaware of how to take compliments.

“I discovered, with the little ones,” she muttered, “it helps ease their anxiety as they fall asleep, you know – if they have something else to focus on.”

“Well, I also can’t help but…notice,” Hermione ventured, “that you are…well, _completely_ different when you interact with children, or at least with this one.”

“What do you mean?” Pansy barked, squinting, anticipating some sort of insult.

“I simply mean that you are really, really good with kids. It’s inspiring to watch.”

“Oh,” Pansy uttered, stopping in the hallway to consider Hermione’s words before responding further, looking up at the ceiling. “I _do_ like kids, honestly. I guess it’s just that they haven’t had time to get shitty yet, like the rest of humanity.”

Thorfinn laughed. “That’s a classic Petal response,” he said. Turning to Hermione, he asked, “Are you ready to go back down? I think you’ve seen just about everything.”

“Actually,” she replied, feeling bashful, “if it’s allright with the two of you, I was going to use the code you gave me to go upstairs, before I went home. I just wanted to leave him a note, for…whenever he gets back from Switzerland later tonight.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but Thorfinn reached out and squished both of Hermione’s cheeks, puffing out her lips, like he was an aunt from Boca Raton who had not seen her in years.

“AREN’T YOU JUST ADORABLE?!?!” he crooned. Then, he turned to Pansy, with an unusual pout on his face. “I would die of pure euphoria if someone ever left ME a note.”

“Then I shall be sure to do so as soon as possible,” she responded, flatly. 

Turning to Hermione, she said, “I’ve got one last meeting before I head home, but…good to see you, I suppose, Granger.” This time, she was the one who put out her hand, and Hermione shook it with a slight inclination of her head. 

As Pansy sauntered down the hallway, Thorfinn, gazing somewhat forlornly at her retreating form, murmured, “That seems to be an improvement.”

Hermione waited a few seconds, until Pansy was safely on the elevator, and then, very quietly, asked him, “How long have you carried a torch for her?”

Still looking down the hallway, although no one was there, he sighed and answered, “To be fair, I carried one for you for quite a while.”

Hermione glanced at the floor, abashed. She had suspected it, especially a couple of years ago, but it was the first time he had come right out and admitted it.

“But…” she conjectured. “You didn’t want to hurt Antonin.”

His silence was all the answer that she needed. 

They were close enough to be comfortable in the silences.

After a while, they both met each other’s eye, and he continued.

“As for Pansy, though?”

“Yes, Petal,” she said, thinking his nickname for her was rather sweet.

He grinned, showing his dazzling white teeth.

“Since the day she started working here.”

Hermione squeezed his arm, meaning to convey support, and understanding.

“She is rather phenomenally beautiful, I’ll grant you that. Did you…happen to zero in on Tracey at the party simply because the two of them look kind of similar from the back?”

Thorfinn’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed an unsightly grimace.

“Odin’s balls,” he said. “It didn’t occur to me at the _time_ , but now that you mention it…”

Hermione cackled, throwing her head back, and Thorfinn joined her. He was always good at being able to laugh at everything, even himself.

“It’s not just her looks, though, Princess,” he clarified. “With Pansy, I mean. That’s not what keeps me coming back, in spite of being rebuffed.”

“What, then?”

Thorfinn put one hand in the pocket of his ski pants and ran the other through his blonde locks, ruminating on the question before answering.

“She’s a challenge.” 

<> <> <> <>

Hermione stood in front of Antonin’s unmarked door, but did not remove the apartment key from her purse. Despite the message Thorfinn had conveyed to her, she felt that entering the apartment now would be somehow…presumptuous. She was highly conscious, especially since Christmas, of the economic disparity between Antonin and herself, and resisted any implication that she was in this arrangement for his possessions – when she was really in it for her parents, and, she knew, for the man himself. She would utilize the key Friday, she knew – just not today.

Nevertheless, she _had_ used the code to reach the top floor of the building, and she wanted to leave him _something_. She had no way of knowing if the patronus had reached him in Switzerland and had felt too pathetic about it to ask Thorfinn, so she was compelled, after all Antonin had done, to leave him with some token of her affection.

Hermione dug around in the red leather handbag and drew out a pad of small yellow post-it notes (taken from her desk at work), along with a muggle fine-tip Sharpie pen – nowhere near as stylish as a quill, but easier to use when standing. 

She waited there for a while, staring at the blank post-it notes, wondering what to say. She tried to think of something erudite, something in Latin as they tended to use with each other, but, in the end, the Gryffindor in her decided to just be simple and direct.

After she wrote the four words, she kissed the unmarked area on the paper, leaving the pattern of her own mouth outlined in shiny pink lip gloss. 

She folded the note – not sure if he would want her thoughts bared to anyone who meandered down the hallway – and stuck it in between the door and the doorframe.

In only two more days, she knew, she would make her way back to this spot, to begin an adventure about which she knew almost nothing. Normally, the lack of specifics would be driving her into an anxious frenzy; however, in this moment, as she walked back down the corridor to the elevator, all she could do was hanker for the feel of his dark beard under her fingers, for his lips pressed on her own – for the scent of white birch trees.

<> <> <> <> <>

Antonin stepped off the elevator, rolling his luggage behind him with his samoyed’s own modest bag nestled on top, utterly exhausted and feeling every single one of his years. Mishka, loping alongside him, was just as bad, huffing as she did when she was tired – _“Ha! Ha! Ha!”,_ a mirthless, rheumy laugh. 

The Jungfrau had indeed been magnificent, just as Thorfinn had told him it would be, but the onslaught of meetings and panels had fatigued him; the conference had presented him with more information than even his own admittedly brilliant mind could hold, and it had been much more difficult to focus due to the spectre of one Hermione Granger. 

Yaxley had morosely jibed at him, back in the dark ages, that once Antonin had Hermione – “had” meaning “fucked” in this instance – his desire would fade, and that his obsession with her would be “out of his system.” This had been one more area in which Yaxley, although Antonin ever loved him, had been incorrect. 

If anything, it was worse now – now that he had bitten her, taken her, fallen asleep next to her. Waking up without her her hair splayed on his linens and her limbs tangled with his was a disappointment every time, and random sensations of their couplings (her digging nails, her unbridled scream, her fearless eyes, her tightness coiled around him) would intrude into his brain when he was trying to simply take notes or interface with clients.

She was not “out of his system.” She _was_ the system.

He wanted to kiss every inch of her body, to tickle her until she got the hiccups, to hold her on his lap while he drank coffee in the mornings and read the newspaper, to argue about what names they would give to their children.

He wanted to tie her up again, to make her choke on his cock, to blindfold her, to rob her of any sense except the feel of his girth invading her tight cunt, to punish her for making him love anyone, ever, at all, after he had sworn himself to nothingness – just to be a wand in the dark with a goal, heartless, and untouchable.

His hands twitched now, often, newly purposeless without her flesh underneath them.

But Antonin's longing for his _L’venok_ was cut short when he, having loosened his tie and dug into his pocket for his key, reached the door of his apartment and saw a small, folded, yellow post-it note sticking out between the door and the doorframe. 

“ _Cyka blyat_ ,” he grumbled, reaching up to take the paper. 

“ _YAP!_ ” Miskha complained, sitting in front of the door and, clearly, confused as to why he was not opening it so that she could finally eat her blackberry yogurt snack and collapse into sleep on the cold tile floor. (Miskha was quite particular about her bedtime and, with it being near midnight, they were well past it.)

“ _Uspoykoysya_ , Mishka,” he muttered, wondering what fresh hell awaited him in the folded sticky note. His guts clenched as he anticipated some minor disaster with the company while he was away, or, worse, another attack. But when he opened it and saw what was inside, he felt himself melting in the most beautiful of ways.

**I’ve missed you.**

**– Hermione**

The signature had been unnecessary, as he had already come to know and love her handwriting. Endearing as ever, she had touched her luscious lips to the space underneath the black ink, leaving an impression of the kiss that he desperately craved.

He placed the note in his pocket and withdrew the key, opening the door for Mishka, who had stood up again, her wagging tail now shaking the rest of her body. 

Having seen the ghost of those lips, and having read her straightforward, earnest declaration, Antonin knew for certain, as he stepped inside his apartment and switched on the lights, that it would now be impossible for him to wait until Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: Uspoykoysya = "take it easy"
> 
> • Violet Beauregard and Veruca Salt are characters from Roald Dahl's *Charlie and the Chocolate Factory* and the movie *Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.* Neither are particularly favorable comparisons. (I know that Dahl absolutely hated the movie version of his novel, but I think it's kind of a delightful time capsule and have a soft spot for it.)
> 
> • The phrase "harboured a tendre" comes DIRECTLY from the Blaise/Hermione fic "Life Was Perfect" by the magnificent Vesperswan. Vesper, thank you for allowing me to use this phrase, initially uttered by your Lucius, that I fell in love with.
> 
> • I didn't intentionally do this – I only realized it after the fact – but Saoirse is, especially in appearance, kind of an Irish version of Ashley from the Amazon Prime TV Show *The Boys.*
> 
> • I also didn't intend for there to be two *Hamlet* references in one chapter, but when Hermione, in her head, says "The lady doth protest too much, methinks", she is quoting Gertrude from *Hamlet*.
> 
> • The idea of the glowing flowers was taken (and adapted to Pansy) from the character of Hibana from the *Fire Force* anime.
> 
> • "The Trees They Grow So High" is a British folk song, of unclear authorship:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Trees_They_Grow_So_High
> 
> There are several versions out there to listen to (the Pentangle version is excellent), but if you want to get an idea of how I had imagined Pansy's voice sounding in this chapter, the closest to that is probably the Joan Baez recording:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wh7Lcw0ZIWc
> 
> • jetsamsrule31 kindly informed that the story has not been updating lately with the right publication date, meaning it has not been showing up in newsfeeds. That means those of you who have been commenting and reading over these last couple of weeks have been going out of your way to do so, which I really, really appreciate! <3 <3 <3
> 
> • The next chapter sees our lovers REUNITED and shows you where they are going on their first adventure.


	26. "Lots of People Get Dizzy the First Time"

<> <> <> <> <>

“‘Mione,” Seamus called from the doorway. “‘Yer food delivery’s here.”

When she heard his declaration, Hermione had just closed the office window, having sent her reply – including a poorly drawn, laughing smiley face – back to Thorfinn, attached to Muninn’s leg as per usual. (The comic he had sent her today was about how, supposedly, Harry’s scar actually came from Dumbledore dropping him on his head when he was a baby.) She cocked her head to the side when she saw Seamus and processed what he had said, then glanced over at Gabi, who looked equally confused. They had both just eaten their lunches and had ordered no delivery.

“Seamus, we didn’t order anything,” Hermione answered. 

“ _But I like Irish snacks_ ,” Gabi mumbled, ostensibly to where only Hermione could hear.

Or perhaps not, because Seamus smirked at Gabi then, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” he responded, affecting a debonair milieu, “they like you, too.” 

Hermione wondered if she should just quietly leave.

But before he could get any farther, someone was frantically yelling his name from down the hall. With an irritated grunt of disgust, he said, “Anyway, ‘Mione, you may want to come out and deal with him, around the corner here – says he’s from Domino’s pizza.”

Hermione had never in her life ordered from Domino’s pizza or even been tempted to. Shaking her head and prepared to hash out the misunderstanding, she thanked Seamus, winked over at Gabi – with her skin tone, it was hard to tell if she was actually blushing, but her grin was wicked – and walked towards the outer corridor, turning right to round the corner that Seamus had indicated, towards the Wizard Resources wing.

But the moment that she did, she felt herself yanked violently sideways, slammed up against the wall, and crushed into a heated, open-mouthed, positively manic kiss. 

Even with her eyes closed, she knew him.

“Antonin,” she whispered, both aroused and alarmed, pushing him away just enough to look at him. “You – you can’t be here, in the _ministry_!!! You are in the lion’s den!”

“That was my exact intention, my lioness,” he purred.

His hands were placed flat against the wall on either side of her head, his body pinning her in place, his sinfully smiling face still mere centimeters from her own. 

_Fuck._

Her body was responding without her mind’s permission.

“I’m – I’m serious,” she managed to stammer, as he nuzzled and kissed her cheek. “I’m afraid for you. It’s not that I – don’t want to see you! You have no idea how much I – missed this – but – you can’t just _walk in here_. This is perilous for you!”

“ _Ne boysya, krasavitsa_ ,” he cooed, taking a step back from her. “I am in disguise!”

Now actually able to look at his entire body for the first time, she saw that there was, in fact, a Domino’s pizza box at his feet. Glancing upwards, she noted that he was in ripped jeans and a well-loved, long-sleeved Megadeth: Rust in Peace tee, and that all of his lush brown hair was hidden underneath a faded blue baseball cap. She covered her mouth, trying to muffle her laughter, and pulled on his shirt with her other hand. 

“What?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You look so…American,” she said, giggling. “This is your idea of a disguise?”

“It was the best I could do on short notice,” he murmured, obviously a bit put out that she was not impressed with his masterful subterfuge. “They’re Thorfinn’s.”

“I KNOW they’re Thorfinn’s,” she said, still chuckling. “You could have used polyjuice.”

“Yuck – I cannot stand the taste of it. It’s foul, and you know it! Stop laughing at me, _wed’ma_ mine. Besides, I don’t have much time. I have meetings all evening, but when I got your little yellow message I just – I couldn’t wait to see you, _milaya.”_

“You got the note! I worried later that the cleaning elves might remove it.”

“I don’t have elves,” he clarified, stepping close to her again. “Just regular squib janitorial staff, but no, they did not remove it. And I got your patronus, too.”

At this news, despite knowing that someone was bound to come around the corner and interrupt them at any minute, her elation surpassed her logic.

“Flippity firedrakes! It worked!” she squeaked. 

He wrapped his strong arms around her waist then, and she sighed. She had _needed_ that feeling so immensely, so dearly, over the last few days.

“Of course it worked. My witch can do anything,” he whispered, placing a sweet kiss on her nose. “Your patronus is adorable, but not at all what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” she inquired, grasping the collar of his – or rather, Thorfinn’s – tee.

“Hmmmm,” he uttered, pulling back her own shirt collar to inspect her neck. She noted a fleeting frown, and realized that he might have been checking to see if his love bite remained; she knew it did not. “An actual lion? A tiger? Something much more powerful. I do not feel that the otter reflects you in your full puissance,” he said.

“There _are_ some playful parts of me, nonetheless,” she said, running her hands up his neck to let her fingers gently stroke his beard.

“That is true. I like those parts, too,” he whispered, moving forward to kiss her again.

But she summoned all of her cold, hard, British strength – calling on every ancestor who had survived the Blitz, the Bubonic plague, the Viking invasions – to prevent him, holding out her unyielding palm like the Supremes singing “Stop in the Name of Love.”

“Antonin, I want nothing more – and I mean _nothing_ more. But someone is going to walk around that corner any minute now and it’s going to make for a very sticky – ”

“Uuuuggghhh _KRASAVITSSAAAAAA_ ,” he moaned, like a teenage boy being asked to run a boring errand. “I don’t _care_. I don’t CARE, do you hear me!? I _need_ you. I need to devour you,” he hissed, moving his face around her outstretched hand to attack her neck, nipping all the way up to her jaw. “I just…” _Nip._ “Could not…” _Nip._ “Wait until…” _Nip._ “Tomorrow, and I have all these…” _Nip._ “Stupid dinner meetings…” _Nip_. “All evening with the Croatian healers’ union…” _Nip_. “So this was my only opportunity…” _Nip._

She could not stop her back from arching, her throat from issuing a mammalian whine, her knickers from growing wet – but the gears in her mind, indelible, were still turning.

“Antonin,” she rasped, as she tilted her head to grant his lips more access to her neck. “I don’t understand. Meetings in Switzerland, meetings with Croatians. Aren’t you in _hiding?”_

He pulled back from her again, panting a little, to shrug his shoulders.

“To a degree.”

“But…Gabi said you were like Willy Wonka, and that you never went out.”

He laughed at that, and she tried to shush him, placing a finger on his mouth.

“It just depends,” he explained, taking her hand and holding it in his own, tenderly, “on where I am or with whom I am doing business. _L’venok_ , you must understand that…in Estonia, or in Florida, or in Luxembourg…nobody really knows or cares who a death eater named Antonin Dolohov was. They have their own problems. I don’t have anyone to hide from in those instances. So, whenever I meeting with foreign clients or industry partners, I go to those meetings myself. But if the customers are English, then I _do_ hide, or go into my chocolate factory, however you want to say it, and I let Thorfinn, or Pansy, or Saoirse, or Alistair…or someone else take it from there.”

She squinted at him, scrutinizing, the gears continuing to turn.

“Then,” she asked, “wouldn’t it have been much, much easier to set up MediMagic somewhere else? ANYWHERE else? Europe, America, or even back in Russia? This is, with your past, the _worst_ place you could have built it – so why did you put it here?”

He gave her an amused, lopsided smile, squeezing her hand.

“Because _you_ were here, _krasavitsa.”_

And then, his admission having rendered her heart into a helpless puddle of goo inside her chest cavity, she could no longer prevent him at all.

In mere seconds, they were on each other like flies on flypaper, every part of their bodies seemingly stuck together, each of them keening into the other’s mouth, each of them running their hands under the other’s clothing – Hermione’s fingers raking his chest muscles underneath the tee, and Antonin’s fingers hoisting up one of her legs to sneak his palm over the flesh of her thigh under her suede skirt. Amidst the unrelenting siege of his lips, teeth, tongue, and hands, Hermione was slowly forgetting where she was, what she was supposed to be doing. This man was her job now. 

Snogged into near-idiocy, she reached her hand down in between them to rub the length of his twitching cock over his jeans, to show him what she really wanted.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snarled, grabbing both of her hands and shoving them, hard enough to bruise knuckles, into the wall above her head; he drove his erection into her knickers as she kept her one leg wrapped tight as a vice around him, increasing the ethereal pressure.

“Don’t you toy with me, little witch,” Antonin growled, “or I swear by Saint Vasily himself I will strip you naked right here and rail you in this _goddamn hallway_ – ”

Hermione lunged forward, as far as her pinioned arms would allow, and captured his blasphemous mouth with her own in another savage, frantic, biting, almost violent kiss, just what she knew he needed – a kiss for a monster. A kiss for _her_ monster.

The torturous separation of the last week amplified their joint delirium, and she could feel, in the vibrations of his low, ferocious moan through her own throat and chest, that he had craved her as much as she had craved him. She _loved_ being held in place by him; she writhed under the delicious constraint, his fingers digging into her wrists as he kissed her back, heedless of comfort and decorum, like he truly _had_ bought her – like he knew he would be the only one kissing her for the rest of her life. 

“Can’t wait to be inside you again, _krasavitsa,_ ” Antonin whispered when he came up for breath, his long fingers crawling ever higher along the outside of her thigh. 

As his lips subsumed hers once more, eliminating any chance of a reply, Hermione cursed their surroundings, his infernal meeting schedule, the silly obstacle of her own clothing; she ached to be stretched and filled and wrecked and owned by him again –

_“Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe!!!”_

Hermione quickly kicked a protesting Antonin away from her, their lips parting with a sad _pop!!!,_ to see Gabi standing in front of her with her hands covering her mouth.

“Girl I didn’t know, I wasn’t trying to – ”

“No, no, Gabi, I’m just relieved it’s you,” Hermione whispered, knowing she must be red as a beet, but trying to retain some sense of civility in her mortification. “I’m _so_ sorry for my…well, anyway, while you’re standing here, Gabi, this is Mr. Putorana,” she said, gesturing to Antonin, who was tugging his shirt back down with a goofy grin; she noted wryly that he made sure to pull the cotton fabric down over his raging hard-on. 

“And this,” she said, pointing to her office mate, “is Gabi, my friend from New Mexico.”

Antonin, looking nowhere near as abashed as he should have, removed his cap – his rich coffee-colored hair falling down in a tempting cascade – and took a chivalrous bow, then approached Gabi in two strides and placed a gentle kiss on her hand.

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ , Gabi,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Gabi was blinking rapidly and looking back and forth between the two of them.

“Can you…translate?” Hermione asked, reading her friend’s expression.

“Oh! I just meant to say a formal ‘Hello’,” he clarified, releasing her hand with a chuckle. He replaced the ball cap and said, “I apologize for my lascivious display in your hallway, Gabi; your friend…well. I think I should let you ladies get back to work.”

He turned towards Hermione, pointing at her, his hand in the shape of a gun.

“I’ll see you in the apartment tomorrow. Did Thorfinn give you the code and key?”

She nodded, reaching up to place one last, comparatively chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Good, then. Three in the afternoon, as agreed upon. Are you excited?”

“Yes,” she admitted, as he was slinking backwards towards the exit. “I still haven’t a clue where we…wait! Ant…” She barely caught herself. “You forgot your pizza box!!!”

“No, it is _your_ pizza box!” he called back with a megawatt smile, before spinning around, kicking open the door, and disappearing into the remainder of his Thursday.

Hermione turned around to Gabi, whose hand was flat on her own chest.

“Sis, I think I might be three months pregnant and all he did was say was hello.”

Hermione cackled then, relieved that her friend was not annoyed with them.

“Honestly, Gabi, I am so sorry you had to see that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know what came IN you, and damn I seriously don’t blame you at this point – ”

“GABI!!!!!”

“Girl don’t ‘GABI!!!!!’ me after you were putting on a sessy show like that. Now pick up your pizza box and, uhh, straighten up your skirt a little before we go back.”

Hermione, laughing lightly and shaking her head, bent down to pick up the box and started walking with her friend back down the corridor to their shared office.

“I mean,” Gabi muttered, “I know we talked about that Henry Cavill Superman-level dick you were getting, but I guess I still had no idea…”

“Henry _what?”_

“Like, I know you said your new mans was something-something but I just did not fully realize until now. I may not wash this hand,” she said, looking down at it in a stupor.

“Gabi!” Hermione chided, teasing. “What about your Irish snack?”

“Oh you know,” she said, leaning her head in the direction of Seamus’s office as they entered their own, “Irish snack is number one undefeated. Don’t you worry – my eyes are still on the prize, especially after today. I’m just honestly happy for _you_ , girl – ”

“Oh sweet Merlin!!!” Hermione yelped.

“Whoa, whoa – what’s wrong, _chiquita?”_

Hermione had come to a dead stop in the middle of the room, once she had opened the pizza box and had observed what awaited her inside it. 

On the cardboard itself, Antonin had written one sentence in thick black ink.

**I’ve missed you, too.**

Next to the note was a drawstring bag of thin, golden, translucent fabric, through which Hermione could already make out the shape of two large, round gemstone earrings.

<> <> <> <> <>

“You’re wearing them,” he observed, grinning, as soon as she walked into his study.

Antonin, standing and waiting for her by his desk, was more casual than she was accustomed to, but still, of course, looked fucking delectable. He had a black hoodie on underneath a long black double-breasted pea coat, and he wore blue jeans – not ripped this time – with black boots. The entire ensemble screamed “I look damn good in this coat but am too cool to care about it.” In her puffy navy blue jacket and knitted mauve beanie – a relic of Molly Weasley – Hermione felt comparatively frumpy. 

But the magnificent earrings he had given her the day before would look lovely no matter what, she knew. Having put her hair in one long braid specifically so that he would be able to see them, she reached up and touched one of them with her fingers.

“Of course,” she said, quietly. “Antonin, you are _spoiling_ me.”

“That is the goal, yes,” he said, closing the gap between them. “Do you like them?”

“I _love_ them, Antonin. I really, really do,” she confirmed, with a shy grin. “But I’m serious – I feel so _guilty_. It hasn’t even been a week and I already have jewelry, flowers, and a ridiculously expensive handbag, but I have given you absolutely nothing – ”

“Ohhhhhhh little _kroshka_ ,” he cooed, touching his hand to her face, gazing at her with something she would almost call love. “You give me more than you could ever know.”

When he looked at her that way, _that_ was the hardest for her to process – not his unexpected silliness, not his incendiary desire. Not his possessiveness, not his wrath. It was this disarming feeling of adoration that she could not understand.

“I just,” she stammered, scrambling her way back into the conversation before she was lost in those deep, dangerous mahogany eyes, “don’t know what they are, exactly – the earrings. I thought amethyst at first, but they seem like…two different colors…”

“Alexandrite,” he explained, nodding. “I…found them back home.”

She squinted as she asked, “Have you _been_ back to Russia, since we…”

He chuckled, kissing her on the forehead.

“No,” he answered, unashamed. “But I have had a long time to plan for you.”

“What would you have done with them if I hadn’t signed the contract?” she teased.

He looked up at the cieling, playful, rubbing his chin in consideration. “Hmmmm. Well, I did not foresee any eventuality in which you would NOT have signed, of course. I OBVIOUSLY never doubted it for an instant due to my extreme sexual magnetism.”

She lightly punched him in the chest as he laughed.

It was embarrassing that, although what he said was a joke, it was also not wrong.

“Speaking of home, though, I must say I like this precious braid of yours,” he said, tugging it. “In Russia, there was once a _language_ to these braids, you know.”

“There was?” she asked, reaching her hands into his pockets and pulling him closer. Considering the lust-fuelled lunacy he had shown at the ministry the day before, she was surprised that he was not already “on her like white on rice,” as Gabi would have said.

“Yes,” he growled, wrapping the braid around his fist. “Although – you wanton, reckless thing – this is the braid of a _single_ woman.”

“I am, in fact, not married,” she whispered, fluttering her eyelashes.

“But you are spoken for,” he said, gripping her waist with his other hand, guilding her backwards towards the bookshelf. “You must braid a ribbon through it next time.”

“Must I, six-month-lord-and-master?” she taunted.

“I insist,” he rasped, full of hazardous want, pulling her hair even harder. 

And yet…even as he gritted his teeth, he still held himself back.

She stood on her tiptoes to bite his lip, just gently, eliciting a pained, deep moan.

“Antonin,” she whispered, grasping his hood. “Why haven’t you tackled me yet?”

“Because, Hermione,” he sighed, sounding suddenly as morose as a man being led to the guillotine, “we are not the only ones going on this expedition to America. There was someone else who begged to be included.”

He took a loathsome step back from her, folding his arms.

“And, if I am not mistaken, the third party is now standing somewhere behind me.”

Hermione did not even have time to compute what he had told her before she registered a flash of blonde hair and white teeth and the familiar scent of sea salt, while both she and Antonin were gathered into a bone-crushing bear hug.

_“FIIIIIIIIELD TRIIIIIIIIIP!!!!!!!”_

<> <> <> <> <>

Antonin and Hermione were posted on one side of the desk, his left arm around her waist, while his wand was in his right; on the other side were Thorfinn, and, standing on her back legs with her front paws on the cedar surface of the desk, Mishka. 

Antonin utilized his wand to levitate, from an open drawer, two extremely plain-looking sandy brown rocks, neither any bigger than a kumquat.

“I’m so _excited_ ,” whispered Thorfinn, shifting his weight between one foot and the other. He was also wearing jeans, boots, and a black hoodie, but over the sweater he donned an item of clothing Hermione was already familiar – something he called a “battle jacket,” which was essentially a long-sleeved, frayed denim coat upon which he had sewn a collection of patches representing various metal bands he had seen play live (with interesting names like Accept, Axxion, Huntress, Iron Reagan, and GWAR).

“ _Rao rao_ ,” said Mishka, apparently sharing the sentiment.

Antonin, still focusing on levitating the rocks, chuckled. 

“You’ve already been. Multiple times.”

“Yeah, but not on a day trip with my _two best friends_! Plus, I don’t think it ever gets any less impressive,” replied Thorfinn. “And this is my first chance to visit it in winter! I don’t know how anyone could ever get tired of seeing the – ”

“THORFINN,” Antonin barked, staring javelins at him; the stones wavered when he took his eyes away of them. “She doesn’t know yet,” he growled.

“Oh! You big marshmallow, you! You’re surprising her!” he said, with a rogueish smile.

“That is the idea,” he drawled. “Now,” he said, looking down at Hermione, earnest and pedagogical, lowering both of the rocks to the surface of the desk. “These two stones are portkeys. We all need to touch them at the same time to get to our destination.”

“Why two?” she asked, a little nervous, grasping the rim of his coat pocket. It had been a while since she had traveled by portkey, the last time being with the Malfoys.

“Because Thorfinn and Mishka are returning separately, so they needed their own key,” he explained. “Thorfinn is being kind enough to take Mishka to my _babushka’s_ later, and afterward he has some kind of a – what is it you’re coming back for again?”

“Big concert…festival kind of deal,” he responded, pointing to his battle jacket. “If you didn’t already have ‘nefarious plans’ for this one,” he said, pointing at Hermione (and she then noted Antonin rolling his eyes, wondering what that phrase was about), “I’d ask you to come with. It’s going to be _sick_ – Blind Guardian, Grave Digger, Dokken – ”

“ _Gavno_ ,” Antonin swore. At least, Hermione thought it was a swear word. “Dokken? They’re old enough to where even I know them.”

“IN MY DREEEEAMS, IT’S STIIILLLL THE SAAAME,” warbled Thorfinn, throwing in some air guitar. His vocals were not as on point as his artistic skill, but what he lacked in pitch he made up for in enthusiasm. Hermione could not stopper a smile.

“Well, anyway,” Antonin continued, laughing softly, “that’s why there are two. Are you ready, _krasavitsa_? Thorfinn, can you – good, you’re already one step ahead of me.”

As Hermione nodded, she observed that Thorfinn had his right hand hovering above the rock and his left hand holding Mishka’s fuzzy white paw over it.

“Ready, boss.”

“Allright,” Antonin said, taking a deep breath, and glancing down at Hermione, squeezing her waist tightly. “On the count of three. One, two, THREE!”

As soon as Hermione touched the tawny, unremarkable rock, she felt the old sensation of a pulling somewhere behind her stomach and, before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees – on a wet, black concrete pathway winding through a forest of what looked to be ancient, thick pine trees with bark the color of sodden ochre. Thorfinn and Mishka appeared just a few feet ahead of them on the path, Mishka wagging her furry tail and announcing her presence with a customary “ _YAP!”_

The ground was covered with a thin layer of new-fallen snow, and it was cold, but only just so much for the snow to have stuck; she felt fine in her layers, the vapor from her breath swirling up in vivacious puffs, and, after Antonin helped her to her feet, she dug into her own pockets for her matching mauve mittens and further surveyed their surroundings. She had, in fact, never been to America before, and was not familiar enough with its topography to have any guess as to where they had landed.

“Here you go,” said Antonin, suddenly holding out a small vial of gold liquid, which she accepted. He had one for himself, as well, which he held up to her in a mock toast.

“ _Na Zdorovie_ ,” he said, before downing it and putting the empty bottle in his pocket.

“What is it?” she asked, holding it up to the light to see the swirling, translucent unction.

“It’s a temporal readjustment potion, _krasavitsa_ – nothing evil, I promise you. It will align your body to this time zone, with no ill effects on your health. Thorfinn doesn’t need it since he will only be here a few hours, but I thought it might be helpful for you. I’ll give you the counterpotion when we go back to England tomorrow.”

“Oh!” she breathed. “What a brilliant concoction!”

She registered his pleased reaction to her praise before she drank the liquid, which tasted like caramel, or champagne, or both, depending on the millisecond.

“What time is it here?” she asked, as she handed back the empty vial. Looking around, she could only guess that it was some time after sunrise. 

“About 8:00 AM,” Antonin said. He then held out his gentlemanly arm to escort her down the black cement trail, pointing at Thorfinn and Mishka. “Shall we, _milaya?”_

She slipped her own arm in his, then watched as Thorfinn removed a light blue slip leash from his pocket and wrapped it around the samoyed’s neck.

“I can take her, Thorfinn, if she’s trouble,” Antonin offered as they began to walk. 

“Nope, no takebacksies,” Thorfinn stated, jutting his chin in the air. “You said she gets to be _my_ dog on this trip,” he chastised, as she tugged at the lead in eagerness.

“That I did,” Antonin said. “Although I begin to fear she loves you more than me.”

“Most women do,” Thorfinn deadpanned, pulling ahead of them in Mishka’s wake.

“Not this one,” Hermione whispered, squeezing Antonin’s arm. He looked down at her with a shy smile, leaning in towards her and sneaking a quick peck on the lips.

“Well, this is the one that matters,” he whispered back. His breath smelled the same as his his hair and beard looked – like morning coffee, no sugar, no cream.

“Antonin,” Hermione breathed, her anticipation building as her eyes darted all around. She caught, far ahead, the sight of a jackrabbit bolting into the snow-dusted bushes and heard Mishka whining to pursue it. “This is _beautiful_ , but…where are we? 

“I think you will know soon enough,” he said. “Actually…right about now.”

Up ahead, the trees appeared to abruptly stop, while it looked like the path veered sharply to the right and left, but not forward. Forward, there seemed to be nothing – a couple of benches, and the wide sky of a cloudy late December morning. 

Hermione stopped, squinting, hesitant for some reason she could not put her finger on, but Antonin released her arm and gently pushed her with his palm.

“Go on, _L'venok_. See it for yourself,” he encouraged.

Hermione took seven, eight, nine steps forward, and then –

The sound of the wind faded into silence as every molecule of _potentia_ in her brain abandoned each of her other four senses to lend critical aid to her beleaguered eyes.

She did not understand what she was seeing.

There were sideways beams of gold and vivid amber, laughing as they snuck under the cloud cover, cutting sharp across an incomprehensible abyss like the shining blade of a broadsword; there were errant flakes of white, the scraps of ice descending in their surrender to the immolation of the morning sun; there were misty shades of steel grey that bled into irascible periwinkle in the distant, thwarted vapor as it touched the horizon; and then, carved by ancient, enduring forces greater than the power of any wand, there were black shadows – deep, deep shadows, deeper than the reign of all mankind, deeper than the written word, deeper than she knew she could ever go. 

The shadows judged her, and knew her, and found her _wanting_ – untouchable in all their perilous, haunting magnificence. 

“Sweet Prospero,” she whispered.

It was all too vast, too colossal for human comprehension. 

“I – Fuck. I can’t breathe.”

Gasping, she put her hands on her knees, then simply crumpled to the ground like a sticky, newborn, wobbly calf as all the sound flooded back into her head at once – the frigid, mournful breeze, the rough harmony of Antonin and Thorfinn cackling at her together, Mishka’s excited yaps and the scratch of her restless claws on the dark concrete, and a redbreasted robin, unbowed by winter’s chill, calling from a nearby bush. 

“I’ve got you, _krasavitsa_ ,” she heard Antonin say as he lifted her up to her feet again, holding her tight and rubbing her back even as she still registered the rumble of a low, stifled chuckle reverberating throughout his body. “Never doubt it.”

She closed her eyes and remembered the last time he had said that to her – how was it less than two weeks ago? – letting the memory of their passionate, masked dance and the scent of white birch trees ground her, breathing in for four seconds, breathing out for five, over and over, while Antonin kept rubbing her back in centering, slow circles.

After a minute or so, he leaned his head down to kiss her cheek.

“Lots of people get dizzy the first time, _milaya_ ,” he whispered. “I did too.”

Hermione took a step back from him while gripping his arms, hard, and accusing him. 

“You should have warned me! I wasn’t READY!”

He laughed, throwing his head back before smiling and nuzzling her nose with his.

“No one ever is,” he said. “And I couldn’t pass up a chance to take your breath away.”

“Antonin, it’s _massive_!!!” she squealed, venturing another look around his body into the enormous gorge. “I have seen pictures, of course but...you just...there’s no sense of scale. It’s just…so much more immense than I had ever imagined. I had no _idea_.”

“And that is why you deserved to see it,” he declared, turning to face the fissure, keeping a supporting arm around her waist as Thorfinn and Mishka approached her other side. All of them gazed outward into the illuminated chasm.

With a satisfied sigh, Antonin said, “Welcome to the Grand Canyon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • New Russian phrases: Ne boysya = "do not be afraid"/"do not fear"
> 
> • The comic Thorfinn sends Hermione is a reference to the first one in this list:
> 
> https://www.boredpanda.com/irresponsible-dumbledore-funny-harry-potter-comics/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic
> 
> • Gabi's line about feeling "three months pregnant" is borrowed from comedienne Crystal Powell.
> 
> • If you want a vague idea of what Antonin looks like in the coat, scroll to the second photo:
> 
> https://hwaetwegardena.tumblr.com/post/644452318788665344/michiel-huisman-icon-magazine-by-michael
> 
> (And, uhh, you know, feel free to enjoy the rest of the photos as well.) :-D
> 
> • If you want more information about the history of Russian braids, and the symbolism behind them:
> 
> https://www.rbth.com/lifestyle/333416-braid-russian-women#:~:text=First%20of%20all%2C%20it%20was,bright%20ribbon%20into%20her%20braid.&text=Two%20ribbons%20signified%20that%20the,their%20approval%20to%20the%20marriage.
> 
> • If you would like a visual aid for what Hermione is seeing when she first glimpses the canyon, here are my own photos:
> 
> https://hwaetwegardena.tumblr.com/post/644702150270779392/my-pictures-of-the-grand-canyon-not-98-though
> 
> • The canyon is a detour just to impress Hermione, but the next chapter shows why the four of them have actually gone to Arizona.
> 
> • As always, your comments are heavenly manna to me, to sustain me as I wander (literally) in the desert. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who keeps reading. I'm starting to write the last part of the quadruple smut barrage now. I will deliver you to the promised land, if you can but stay with me. (And by promised land I mean something quite the opposite of holy.)


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